


Deep Roots

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Bruce (Hulkeye) [11]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Child Abandonment, Domestic Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Spousal Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton always knew it would all come crashing down around him. He'd done too many bad things in his past for karma to give him a pass. He just never thought it would end like this or that he'd take down the people he loved with him. </p><p>Or the story where Clint discovers he has unfinished business from his time as Ronin and has to deal with the consequences. </p><p>Or Clint and Bruce try to get married, but shit gets in the way.</p><p>This is the second part of The Broken Blade Trilogy and this is Clint's story. Told entirely from Clint's POV. This story picks up where "Not All Who Wander" leaves off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road to Isengard

**Author's Note:**

> The story so far: A rogue H.Y.D.R.A. leader, Richard Fisk, has created a way to cause the hulk transformation in others and trigger genetic mutations to create super soldiers. Both Bruce and Clint, along with some others, have been exposed to said triggers; Bruce is gaining more control over his transformation and Clint's reflexes are faster along with his already amazing eyesight. Mab, a yet unknown force, is behind Fisk who is trying to open our world to her power. To that end, Fisk has shared his breakthrough with other forces, all who share a common goal of bringing down the Avengers. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: This fic contains allusions to past childhood abuse, present day abuse of women, and sadistic torture & violence on part of the villain of the piece. Most of the abuse will be implied, but if a pregnant woman in danger triggers you, please don't read this.

**THEN**

He held his breath, sucked in his stomach and tried to cry silently, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks. The voice was loud, angry, so harsh and guttural; every word was a shout, every phrase followed by a thunk of fist hitting flesh. She’d long ago quit screaming, nothing now but a few quiet moans. He could see her arm as she slumped on the floor, red rivulets of blood staining the cuff of her white uniform. Fingers jerked as the kicks landed; he squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the bright smears on the black and white tile.

“Stop it!” His brother’s voice, pitched high, fear making it tremble. “Leave her alone!”

“Don’t you talk to me like that!”

The breath was knocked out of Barney’s chest by the first fist to his chest, and he spun around with a cry. The second slammed into his jaw, and he went down, bouncing off the floor, skidding to a stop just in front of the small crevice Clint had folded his little body into. His brother saw him and managed a weak shake of his head, his message clear … don’t move, don’t say anything.

“You’re as bad as she is, protecting him.” A kick and Barney shut his eyes. “The lot of you aren’t worth the trouble.” Another kick and Barney’s fists clenched. “I could have been something if this bitch hadn’t gotten pregnant, could have been out of this crappy dead-end job.”  The last kick was vicious; Barney shuddered and went limp, blood trickling from the corner of his lip. An eerie silence descended. Clint curled up tighter, even smaller, and prayed to anyone listening, God or an angel or a saint or even the devil himself, it didn’t matter who.

The meaty hand clamped around his skinny little wrist and yanked, dragging him out of his hiding place, scraping skin from his knees and elbows as he went.

“There you are,” his father said, bloodshot eyes trained on him, breath smelling like a distillery. “Let’s you and me have a talk.”

**TWO DAYS AGO – Belarus**

“Stay down!” Coulson ordered the ragged group of young boys; they cowered in a corner of the lab, hiding from the gunfire that blazed around them. A.I.M. guards in their yellow overalls were positioned behind a bank of computers, blocking the exit. Someone was going to get the chewing out of their lifetime when Coulson found the person who ran intel on this job; Clint hadn’t seen Phil this angry since he discovered Fury hadn’t told anyone Phil was alive. This was supposed to be a milk run, a small facility with little-to-no security. Waltz in, see what they had, corrupt some files, and get out. Instead, they’d found a hive of activity including an operating room almost ready to go online and cages full of boys to experiment on.

“We’re going to have company!” Clint shouted to Steve who had waded into the biggest group of enemy. Steve didn’t bother to ask how Clint knew, just gave him a hand sign of agreement and tossed his shield again. Assessing their situation, Clint saw only one possible way. Darting out from his protective cover of an overturned table, he covered the open ground as fast as he could, ducking behind a half wall near the boys. Terrified eyes gazed at him through a crack in the overturned tables around them. “Do you understand English?” he asked. Most of them didn’t react, but one boy, maybe twelve, stared back with his dark eyes and nodded. “Okay, when I tell you to run, I want you to go fast, okay? We’re getting out of here.” Another nod, and the boy relayed the information to the others. Some of them shook their heads and others cowered further away. The boy turned back to Clint.

“Avenger?” He asked, accent thick. “Hawkeye?”

“That’s me. Remember, run and don’t look back.” Clint wasn’t sure if that helped or not, but the one boy pulled himself up and spoke sharply to the others. The wall was cinderblock; notching the arrow, he took aim at the structurally weakest part and let the arrow go, timer set for 10 seconds. It landed and the explosion followed, showering them all with rubble and dust.

“Now.” Clint told the boys; they started for the hole, scrabbling over sections of block. “Marines, we are leaving!” Clint shouted to the others, firing a couple gas arrows to create a diversion and make targeting hard for everyone else. Just as he turned to start for the wall, he saw one of the boys stumble and go down, blood flowing from the open gash on his foot. Without thinking, Clint got off a shot seconds before an A.I.M. guard materialized in the smoke; he ran forward, picked up the boy and made for the new exit, twisting to the left to avoid a shower of more block.  A pain shot through his back, up into his arm and down his spine but he kept going, carrying the crying child out into the rainy afternoon. Steve followed, Coulson and the other agents coming out behind them, firing rounds back into the smoke.

**EIGHT HOURS AGO – on a quinjet somewhere over Europe**

“I don’t care who vetted it. We’re not going out on another half-assed mission until I’ve read every file and made my own plans.” Coulson didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even sound angry, but the certainty was chilling. His eyes were cold and his body contained as he listened to the reply. “You do that. Have A.D. Hill contact me directly. Or Director Fury. Until then, we’re on our way home and off duty.”  He severed the connection.

“Go get ‘em, Phil.” Clint tried to get comfortable in his jump seat, but his back was aching too much. He’d taken some muscle relaxants a short time ago; he just had to wait for them to kick in. What a frustrating run around the last six months had been. Ever since General Ross had come after Bruce again and they’d uncovered a brand new threat that was trying to gain entrance to this universe … and yeah, Clint knew how crazy that sounded, but welcome to his world … they’d been chasing their tails, trying to contain the damage. Dr. Van Dyne’s process for creating new Hulks and enhancing existing mutations was the single most dangerous thing H.Y.D.R.A. had come up with then Richard Fisk had shared that information with A.I.M. and other villainous groups. SHIELD was barely keeping ahead of the curve, taking out splinter cells and crazy scientists just before they successfully recreated the process. Thus, Clint bouncing from one place to the other, shutting them all down.

“It was sloppy work,” Steve agreed. “I can’t see how anyone would mistake that large building for something smaller. All the trucks coming and going … you’d think they would have figured it out.”

They shared a look; the pilot and other SHIELD agents around them didn’t know about their search for the inside person who was sharing information. Steve was right, though, this was sloppy. Such bad intel pointed suspicion directly to the people involved; Clint suspected their inside man was too smart to so easily give himself away, but maybe he or she was getting desperate. These constant missions, each one more reckless than the last, were going to raise suspicions. Thank God that, so far, they were all safe and sound, but Clint was growing more exhausted with each new op.

“I take my job very seriously.” That was Coulson speak for heads would roll when he got back. “This should never have happened.”

“I’m going home,” Clint tossed out as his head fell back against the seat. “You’ll have to do the ass chewing without me.”

“How long has it been?” Steve asked. “You been back since the beach house?”

“For no more than six hours at a time.” It didn’t used to bother Clint, being gone so much; in fact, keeping busy kept him from noticing just how little he had in his life. But now, with Bruce waiting, the quasi-family thing he had going at the Tower, he missed it, the whole crazy mess. Going to sleep with the Big Guy and waking up Bruce.  Watching movies with Thor and shouting at the screen. Winding Tony up and enjoying the fallout when he went off half-cocked. Eating deli subs with Steve before the ballgame, cheering Natasha on when she and Carol sparred, listening to Darcy run circles around Thor and Tony and just about everyone else. Somehow, and he wasn’t sure how it happened, he’d gotten a life.

The comm buzzed and Steve’s phone went off at the same time. Phil put the headset back on as Maria’s face came up on the screen. Steve looked at his screen and sighed.

“Tony’s heard,” Steve warned, texting back. “I’ll try to head him off at the pass.” Tony would be on the warpath, even more than he already was about the inside connection. He hadn’t been able to track the mole down and Tony was getting really pissed.

“I understand that, Maria,” Phil said at the same time. “I’ll check in with you in the morning to go through the files. I plan to get a good night’s sleep, first time in weeks.”

Clint watched them both continue their conversations, one verbal, one in texts, his eyes drifting closed, the ache finally receding. Phil had gotten his way; he was smiling and even made a joke. A faint red blush was creeping up Steve’s neck which meant Tony had moved on to sexting, a concept Steve was more than happy to embrace considering how much time they spent apart. Clint certainly enjoyed the creative ways Bruce found to stay in contact during long deployments; he’d fired his own text off to Bruce before liftoff, telling him he was on the way home. With their new connection, he could sometimes sense Bruce, even half a world away, get a rush of joy when numbers came together for him or the Hulk beat Thor at Halo.  It went both ways; worried calls after a particularly bad fight and no hiding wounds anymore, but phone sex, when Clint could feel the echoes of Bruce’s climax rippling through his own, was particularly good.

Coulson sat down next to Clint and studiously avoided looking Steve’s way. “I’m going over the file with a fine tooth comb before I authorize the next op. Enough is enough.”

“Sounds like sleeping in my own bed is in my future.” Clint said with a smile. 

“Like you’ll be sleeping,” Coulson laughed. “Either one of you.”

“You know Tony would love to set you up with someone if you’re …”  Clint began.

“I will kill you slowly if you even whisper any such thing to Stark,” Phil threatened.

Clint just grinned and closed his eyes.

**NOW**

Clint sank down into the hot water and sighed as the jets hit all the right places on his aching body. A chilled pale ale sat on the rim of the massive tub next to a plate of salted caramel bars, _Game of Thrones_ on the integrated screen in the mirrored wall. If Bruce was busy, at least Clint could indulge himself a little, try to relax, and get his back to quit hurting. Shifting to direct a jet of water to the spot that ached, Clint sighed and let his head fall back on the waterproof pillow.

“Hey, Jarvis said you were back,” Bruce crossed the threshold, bare feet padding silently along the tile floor. “Said you hurt your back?”

“Just a pulled muscle, Doc.” Clint enjoyed a good long look at the man from toes all the way up to his curly brown hair that had finally grown back from where he’d had to shave it while on the run. “I told Jarvis to wait until you were at a stopping point. I planned to sit here for a while. Of course, now that you’re here, you’re welcome to join me.”

“You’re just angling for a massage,” Bruce said with a laugh, but he was already unbuttoning his shirt. He undressed with practiced swiftness, used to disrobing quickly before a change; Clint slid forward and made room for Bruce behind him. “Are those up for grabs? Cause I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He picked up a bar and bit into it without waiting for an answer. 

“Help yourself.” Tension was unwinding its hold around Clint’s spine, and he rested his arms on the lip of the tub, the water washing over the infinity edge as they settled. At the first touch of Bruce’s hands, Clint sighed. Bruce could work magic with his fingers, finding knots and kinks and pressing them until they released. Sometimes the process hurt, but Clint kind of liked that part, the sharp pain that faded under the deep circles Bruce wove. The best was when he could feel the pop as the tendons gave way and loosened. Or maybe the best was the slick slide of those elegant fingers across his skin. Being naked didn’t hurt either.

Bruce found the sorest spot, and Clint sucked in a breath, grunting at the burn as the knuckle pushed at the knot.  “That’s a bad one,” Bruce said as he wrapped his other hand around Clint’s waist to hold him still and apply even more force. “You should probably see a chiropractor.”

Squirming a little, Clint bit his lip as he started to harden at the touch. “I’ve got you, Doc.”

“Here, let’s try this.” Bruce pulled Clint back, settling him between his legs in the big tub. Wrapping an arm around Clint’s chest, he kept up the pressure and rolled his knuckle in tiny circle. “Lean forward and to the right. Slowly.”

As he stretched, muscles shifted, tensed and relaxed until he hit the exact tilt that pulled everything taut. A flash of discomfort ran all the way into his neck, and then came the release. “Oh, hell yes. That’s good.” 

“Acupuncture really would help, you know,” Bruce argued as he tugged Clint back to lie against him. “As well as more rest between ops; you’re not bouncing back as fast.”

“You saying I’m getting old?” The water was continually warmed as it circulated, and Clint floated his arms to the surface. “No thank you to needles. I don’t like medical on good days, and I don’t find the idea of being a pincushion relaxing.”

They sat together as the episode ended, neither really watching, just enjoying each other for a change. With all that had happened lately, their time together had become drive by quickies or cuddled up sleep. They’d managed a whole meal last time because Bruce had gone to the helicarrier, something he didn’t like to do, and brought Chinese with him. Clint was determined they talk rather than fall right into sex then rush off again.

“Well, I definitely think Joffrey’s wedding plans are over the top.” There was nowhere in the tower that was completely safe from Tony Stark; he didn’t really listen in or watch the video despite rumors to the contrary, but if he was looking for something specific? Hell yes, Tony would have Jarvis do a search to find any reference. Honestly, Clint was certain the only reason Tony didn’t yet know about the engagement was because they’d had no chance to have any discussions at all. “Rob’s was better, running off all quiet like.”

“Oh, you made me read that book, remember? All the weddings in that series are pretty much doomed.” Bruce’s hands wandered along Clint’s muscles as he spoke.

“Okay, I’ll give you that one.” Clint rubbed his hands along Bruce’s legs, up and back, a soothing motion. “Maybe we should skip the next episode and watch a romantic comedy instead if you’re looking for happy endings.”

“ _The Runaway Bride_? No thanks.” Bruce nuzzled his nose into Clint’s longer hair and nipped at Clint’s ear. “I miss the earrings. Put them back in for me?”

“They’re in the bedroom on top of the dresser.” He’d wear them all the time if he could, but that just wasn’t feasible.

“I’ll get you a diamond stud,” Bruce offered.  “Maybe I’ll wear the other one.”

Clint sat up and looked back at him. “Really? I mean, okay, yeah, that would be hot, but how would that work with the Big Guy?”

“A hoop wouldn’t work, but a stud would stay in.” Bruce shrugged.

“You want to get your ear pierced?” Clint was still surprised.

“I do.” He smiled and Clint suddenly got the message. “How about now?”

Exhausted, back still sore, and knowing he was about to fly off again in a day or two, it was the worst timing. Phil was probably at the office, who knew where Natasha was in transit, and there would be paperwork. Showing up at the justice of the peace? Gossip would fly in seconds, cell phone photos and videos impossible to stop. Father Stephen might do it, if he were available at the last minute.  He wanted to do this, but run off and get married on a whim rather than with a plan? Okay, he’d come to peace with the whole ‘hitch himself to another person forever’ thing, even was willing to admit that he wanted the happily-ever-after more than he ever thought possible. And maybe fate just was conspiring against them – hell, Clint’s whole life was one long spin on the wheel of fortune – to keep them from ever being happy. Well, he’d always planned on the fly anyway, so why change now?

“There’s a lovely little jeweler down near Maggie’s. We could grab some dinner afterwards, stop at that bakery two blocks over for some cupcakes?” Clint turned over and pinned Bruce against the edge of the tub.

“You start that and we’ll never get out of here,” Bruce warned, his voice gone husky as their bodies slid together.  “If you want, we can wait until later.”

“Now is good. Phil’s working on the next mission; who knows how long I’ve got before the next call?” Still, he let his body float as he kissed Bruce, a long slow exploration hotter than the water in the tub. Finally, he pushed back and opened the drain as Bruce watched him through hooded eyes. They got out, toweling off and kissing again leaning against the granite countertop, mirrors fogged from the steam. The bedroom was cooler as they went to their closet; Clint wasn’t certain what to wear for an impromptu wedding, and Bruce didn’t have much of an idea either, so they picked out clothes for each other. Clint took out his favorite purple shirt and grey slacks and laid them out for Bruce. A black fitted shirt and slim silver trousers for Clint, with a thin purple tie with a contrasting stripe. The length of Asgardian red silk Clint used as a scarf, tucking under the lapel of his grey wool coat.  In his ear, he let Bruce slip one gold loop and that almost derailed the evening when Bruce ran his tongue over the circle and then kissed that spot on Clint’s neck.

Leaving was easy; Steve had arrived at the same time as Clint which meant Tony was distracted. Thor was away visiting Jane, Carol and Hank in the lab, Janet with them, so there was no one to run into along the way. That gave them a good hour or two before anyone would miss them. They stopped on the 87th floor and picked up the burner phones Clint had stashed in the back of a drawer in a filing room along with a wallet full of cash. Once they were out on the street, Father Stephen answered on the third ring and didn’t laugh when Clint told him why he’d called. Turned out, he was free after the spaghetti dinner for the Haiti mission trip, so they made a tentative appointment to meet him at 8 p.m. at the parsonage.

“You up for dinner with us tonight?” Clint asked when Phil responded to his text with the recognition code. “Maggie’s at 6:30ish?”

Silent for a second, Phil processed the fact that Clint was calling on a burn phone and had used a plural pronoun. “Ask Bruce if I need to bring the folder,” he finally said. Clint raised an eyebrow at Bruce and mouthed ‘folder?’ Bruce nodded in response. “Yes, I guess.”

“Good. I’ll bring Natasha. I just spoke to her and can swing by HQ to get her out of debrief. She won’t mind. See you there.” Phil hung up.

“Let me guess. Paperwork?” Clint asked Bruce as they paused outside of the jeweler’s window.

“He offered. We just need to sign it.” Pushing open the door, Bruce went inside the small but elegant store. Simple glass cases held a variety of designs, all unique and handcrafted; Clint had passed the window a number of times and admired the Celtic scrollwork in the beautifully polished silver. The young saleswoman – the daughter of the craftsman – obviously recognized them, but she merely smiled and asked if she could help. The hasty plan had been to get diamonds, but Clint’s eyes immediately gravitated to a selection of emeralds held in intricately worked silver.  One was a small cuff with a green stone that reminded him of the Big Guy.

“It’s a triqueta,” she told him, taking it out so he could put it in. Heavy enough to not worry about breaking, but not too large, the piece settled on his ear and Bruce reached out to touch it, his smile making his feelings plain. “A three sided trinity knot.”

“Green?” With a laugh, Bruce moved over to the next case. “I’m thinking amethyst. Something sturdy …” He stopped and Clint felt the Hulk’s excitement wash down the connection; he’d found something he liked.

“Which one?” Clint bent down to look and knew immediately. The earrings were brilliant purple inside a ring of silver; it would be large in Bruce’s ear and small in the Hulk’s, a perfect size. Around the edge ran a wisdom knot, tiny lines that interlocked and circled back along themselves. They’d already decided to get the set in case one was lost. “Now we just have to get the piercing.”

“We don’t do that here,” she said. “But Harry around the corner does; he runs the best tattoo parlor in the city.”

“Tattoos?” Bruce smiled. “Well, we did talk about that, and it turns out we have time …”

“Harry doesn’t do same day service. He’s an artist himself, does some of the designs for mom’s work. Likes to talk to you and then create something unique.” She handed them a card for both stores.  “We’ll keep your design on file in case you need any replacements. Don’t worry, we’re discreet. Mom’s not interested in the notoriety; she likes making people happy. “They thanked her and left the shop; Clint was already planning on telling Pepper and Natasha and sending them here. Both of them appreciated quality work.

Harry turned out to be a tall, slim man in his fifties with surprisingly few tattoos of his own. His assistant, a younger man with shaggy brown hair, was covered from fingertips up, and tattoos curled along his neck out from under his t-shirt. They were gorgeous pieces of artwork; it didn’t take long for them to fall into conversation with the artist while Bruce got his basic stud. Clint held his hand, more for the Big Guy than Bruce, and only a little swirl of color appeared on Bruce’s skin. Harry just laughed and said, “Should I incorporate green in the design?”

Maggie’s wasn’t too full when they arrived at six; they’d called ahead and warned her they were coming so she had a back booth ready and fresh garlic bread was out in minutes. Scrunching in on the same side of the booth, Clint was pressed between the wall and Bruce’s warm thigh flush against his own. The first glass of red wine added to the warmth he was already feeling in his gut, and they didn’t bother to hide their hands under the table as they tangled their fingers together, laying them on the red checkered cloth for everyone to see. Clint was content, flushed with pleasure, everything else retreating behind the wash of sensations. The smell of garlic and bay leaves, oregano and roasted tomatoes filled his nostrils. The taste of dry wine mixed with crusty, buttery bread in his mouth. Eyes captured colors – red scarf, purple shirt, blue neon of the open sign, and liquid brown eyes. He felt skin against skin, bodies pressed through layers of cloth, and the tactile feel of the smooth glass. The sound of Bruce’s laugh, the low chatter of other diners, Maggie shouting at a server filled his ears. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, this was what happiness felt like.

Arriving ten minutes early, Phil had taken off his tie but still wore one of his work suits. Natasha was in a little black dress; she owned far too many of them, and Clint teased her about wearing them under wetsuits like James Bond and his tuxedo. Tossing a file folder on the table, Phil gladly took the glass of wine Maggie brought over, serving them herself with a quizzical eye at Clint. She knew something was up, but she wouldn’t ask. He’d be sure and invite her to the party when they made the announcement.

“Finally came to your senses and decided to follow my advice?” Natasha asked as she sipped her wine, snagging the last piece of garlic bread.

“We’re meeting Father Stephen at 8 if you are so inclined to join us,” Clint shot back with his usual sass. “Phil is automatically invited since he did the paperwork for us.”

“You’re just pissy because I was right.” Natasha didn’t blink at Clint’s tone. “The whole big shindig would never have worked out.”

“We’re still doing that. Later. A party or something.” Bruce tossed in; he was running his thumb across Clint’s fingers, unable to stop touching him. He turned and smiled at Clint.

“Earring.” Natasha stopped chewing for a second, her eyes sharp and focused. “That’s new. And Clint … damn that’s lovely. An emerald? Take it off, let me see.” He did as ordered, passing the new piece over; she held it up to the light for a better view and he recognized that covetous look on her face. “A trinity loop? Good choice. Where?”

“Not far from here. I’ve got the jeweler’s card for you. I knew you’d like it.” He put the cuff back on.

“What did you pick out?” She asked. Bruce tugged the box out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “Gorgeous wisdom knot. Perfect size for both of you. You plan on wearing it all the time?”

“As much as I can. Clint will have to take his off.” Bruce tucked the box back away.

“And the tattoos?” Phil asked. “I thought that was the plan.”

“You’re scarier than she is.” Clint shook his head. “Psychic. That’s what you are.”

“We’ll see the designs next week,” Bruce calmly continued the conversation, squeezing Clint’s hand.

“A trinity loop or wisdom knot?” Speaking of psychic, Natasha was even worse. She knew Clint’s business before he did.

“Both.” At least Clint knew one thing she didn’t.

A platter of fried zucchini and anti-pasto appeared on the table; the talk turned to other topics and they steered clear of anything work related. Laughter, a second bottle of wine, and Clint nudged Bruce out of the bench to head back to the bathroom before the entrees, whatever Maggie had decided to make for them. He bumped two people coming out of the small hallway and locked the door to the small room behind him. The image he saw in the mirror didn’t track with his usual perception of himself; eyes bright with excitement and a flush on his cheeks --- good God he looked like a man in love.  Zipping back up, he washed his hands in the tiny sink next to the small bureau with paper towels. Lying across the top, next to the hand sanitizer, was an innocuous manila file folder, exactly like the one Phil had brought with him. Out of place in the otherwise neat room, Clint leaned over and looked curiously at the label.

RONIN

All the air left his lungs, and his chest seized up into a tight band. His hands grabbed onto the porcelain edge as cold spiraled down his arms and legs, freezing him in place.  For seconds, he couldn’t wrap his brain around the five letters even when he knew the file was for him. He hadn’t heard that name in years, had tried not to think about that part of his life; he wasn’t foolish enough to believe no one knew the identity he’d used on and off, both before he’d come to SHIELD and a few times afterwards. Though they’d never talked about it, both Natasha and Phil knew, and Fury as well, but they would just confront him, not leave some mysterious file out in the open.

He shouldn’t open it. His training was kicking in, telling him to call this in, check it for booby traps or other dangers. To run after those people he’d seen in the hallway, find out who they were. All logical, safe responses of a professional. All those possibilities ran through his head as he reached over and flipped it open. Three pictures and two pieces of paper were inside. First was a picture of a lovely dark-haired woman with startling green eyes, smiling shyly at the camera. He recognized her, could remember Bogota, the name of the mark, how he’d made the kill, the way she’d helped him, but not her name. Turning it over, he saw the paper glued to the back, Times New Roman font. _Angela Martinez, 19_.  Behind that was another picture of the same woman, this time older, in a maid’s uniform surrounded by nuns in full habits. Smiling again, her hands rested on the shoulders of a young girl with dirty knees showing beneath her pleated skirt, white socks slouched down and Mary Janes scuffed around the edges. Brown hair spilled out of her braid and there was a smear of dirt on her white shirt. Blue eyes were filled with mischief as she gazed boldly at the photographer. His fingers shook as he looked at the back. _Angela Martinez, 26, and Margarita Martinez, 7, Our Lady of Perpetual Hope Convent, Espinal, Columbia._

Heartbeat racing, he slipped the birth certificate out, the data corroborating what he already knew in his heart. Margarita Louisa Martinez was born in Espinal, father listed as unknown. Laying the document aside, he looked at the newspaper clipping, an article from two weeks ago. _Cuarto Cadáver Encontrado_ , the headline proclaimed. Four dead women, bodies violated and mutilated in the last two months. The policia said they were artfully arranged as if the killer wanted them found, but they didn’t know why. Clint did. The m.o. was the same as the man he’d killed all those years ago, Rogero Ochoa. Someone was sending Clint a message.

He flipped over the last picture … and his heart stopped, a flash of white hot anger so strong he hissed out loud. She was older, hair dirty and bedraggled, stuck to her face in uncombed hunks. Dull with pain and despair, her eyes stared listlessly, one half swollen closed, and the other caked with dried blood. Bruised and battered, she held a copy of _Bogota Free Planet_ dated seven days ago under her chin. The caption read: _Margarita Martinez Ochoa, 15. Come and get her before I kill her. J.O._

Knees gave out, and he sank down to the tiles, the picture clenched in his grip. One part of his brain was screaming _no, no, no, no, no_ , anger vibrating through his whole body. But another part had been expecting this, had been waiting for the final shoe to drop and shatter everything good. Just like always. He’d done too many terrible things in his life for karma to let him be. How could he ever tell Bruce that he’d used an innocent young woman, left her dangling after a cold-blooded kill, abandoned her pregnant and alone?

He tucked everything back into the folder and tried to breathe normally. The closest stash was in a midtown garage; he had a car with full identities and enough cash to get him to Columbia. He had plans within plans that he didn’t have to consciously think about; he could be on his way within the half hour.

“Clint?” Bruce knocked on the door. “You okay?”

Of course, Bruce would know. Clint could sense both Bruce and the Hulk now that he tried; the Big Guy was on the verge of pounding through the door. His gut told him to run – the window was big enough and there was an alley behind – but he caught a glint of the emerald in the mirror, and he knew he couldn’t do it, not after insisting Bruce trust him. So he unlocked the door and let him in before the Hulk made his own entrance.

“What’s happened?” Bruce’s arms were steady and secure, his face going green as the Big Guy made his presence know.

“I’ve fucked it all up, did something terrible.” Clint dropped his head on Bruce’s shoulder. “I’ve got to go take care of it.”

“Okay.” Bruce caught Clint’s chin and tilted his head up so he could look into his eyes. “Where are we going?”

 

 

 


	2. The Riders of Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint discovers that his friends won't let him do this alone ... and he's not sure if he's happy about it or not.

THEN

“I told you, bitch, to get me more beer!” His father’s voice boomed from the living room as Clint huddled on his bed, too scared to come out to go to the bathroom.  Still early, his mother would be working on dinner in the kitchen, but his dad had stayed home today, pleading a cold when he was really just hung over like always.

“I bought a whole six-pack yesterday and I couldn’t stop today. Roy kept me late to make up for Janice being off on maternity …” His mother tried to explain.

“Stupid cow.” Heavy footsteps lumbered down the hallway; Clint slipped under the metal frame, curling up in the back corner into the tightest ball possible. He knew what came next.  “You should have done what I asked.”

“Harold, we need the money …” She cut off with the sickening sound of meaty fist meeting softer flesh, a groan wrenched from her throat.

“Don’t you rub that in my face! I could provide for this family just fine if you hadn’t gone and gotten pregnant again.” Another thud and tears leaked from the corner of Clint’s eyes; he’d learned to cry silently a long time ago. “Get in the car right now, woman. You’ll pay in more ways than one.”

“But, dinner’s on the stove. I know you like to eat right at 5:30,” she tried to argue, but he’d already had too much to listen.

“Gimme my keys!” He roared. “We’re going to the liquor store and you can buy me a fifth of whiskey.”

“Harold, you’re too drunk,” she protested weakly.

“God damn it, you questioning me?” A crash and his mother cried out once, then bit back her reply. “That’s better. Damn dinner, I’m going to teach you a thing or two.”

Clint didn’t need to see to imagine what was happening, what each sound was as his father dragged his mother out the kitchen door by her hair, slamming her against the counter and kicking the doorframe as he went. More curses from outside, his mother’s occasional sob, and then the engine revved and the car backed up with that specific whine it made when someone turned the wheel too hard to the right. Tires squealed and gears ground before the car drove off. He didn’t move, too scared to do more than shiver, his Scooby Doo underwear wet now where he’d peed on himself. Sobs wracked his body and he prayed the same prayer over and over again. 

“Please, Lord, let him not come back.”

It was one of his favorite dreams that his father was gone and it was just his mother, Barney and him. They’d eat macaroni and cheese for dinner, go to the park, and watch T.V. curled up on the couch. She wouldn’t be so tired all the time, wouldn’t be so sad and no one would ever hit her again. Clint loved that fantasy; it was only slightly better than the one where his real parents showed up, told him they’d been looking for him for years, and took him to live in their lovely little brick ranch house on a street with other kids to play baseball. There’d be family dinners and help with his homework and his own room and maybe even a vacation to Disneyland. He did feel bad about Barney in that one, sometimes adding his brother in to the picture, but usually he was an only child.

Slipping out later, he changed, rinsing out his underwear and pants and hanging them to dry over the radiator so his Dad wouldn’t find out and Barney wouldn’t make fun of him when he returned from afterschool detention. He saved the roast by turning off the oven and snuck a spoonful of potatoes before sneaking a roll into his room for later; his dad would be angry when they got back and Clint wouldn’t get any dinner. Hiding in his room, he waited for someone to come home.

He was still waiting the next morning when the woman in the polyester suit knocked on the door and let herself in the house to tell him about the accident. Looking into the kitchen, Clint saw the cold dinner sitting on the stove then Barney took his hand and they were hustled out of the house into an older model Crown Vic. An office where Clint had soda and crackers was followed by long hours of sitting in a cold metal folding chair and finally another ride to a big brick building with big eyed children all in coveralls watched from windows as the two boys were walked in. Clint went through all of it without any emotion, not even a single tear. He knew they weren’t coming back, understood that they were gone like the puppy his father had hated that had followed him home.

And he knew, it was all his fault.

NOW

“A wise man once told me running away didn’t solve anything. Something about three being better than one,” Bruce said.

“Don’t quote my own words at me,” Clint grumbled. “This is a completely different situation.”

“I won’t dignify that with a response.” Bruce busied himself making tea with the Lipton bags he’d found in the cupboard. “But I will remind you that I made the same argument.”

“Damn it, there’s a girl out there who might be … it’s not the same.” Clint was trying to wrap his head around the pictures in the folder and what they might mean. He wasn’t going to just accept it, not without DNA proof – he knew better than that – but really, it didn’t matter. Clint was not going to let some sadistic S.O.B. have a fifteen-year-old to torture.

“No, it’s not the same,” Phil said, setting out the aluminum pans with the take-out Maggie had packed for them. “But you’re not going to do this by yourself. That’s what they’ll be expecting, you to run off half-cocked.”

“And I’ll kill you if you try to slip away.” Natasha was already eating her penne with vodka sauce and cappicola. The scary part of that statement was how calm she was and how much she meant it.  The second she’d seen that photo of the girl’s battered face, she’d donned her war mask and Clint knew he’d lost the argument before he ever started.  Phil might listen to reason, but Natasha was already planning exactly how the bastard who did that would meet his end.

“We need background; we’re not going in blind.” Phil unwrapped the garlic bread and sat it on the counter. “I can get all the info …”

“No.” Clint said.  “No SHIELD. You know there are no secrets once something’s in the system.”

“Then Tony. JARVIS can search …” Bruce started.

“No. No Tony, no SHIELD, no Avengers.” Clint was adamant on this point. It was bad enough Bruce knew that there was no way he could keep Phil and Natasha from knowing something had happened when he came back to the table.  He’d be damned if he let his past tarnish the best thing he’d found in a long time.  “Low key, quiet, in-and-out. No one knows I’ve been there.”

“You can’t go in without resources and intel,” Phil protested. “I can use level seven access, hide my fingerprints.”

“SHIELD still doesn’t completely trust me, and you know it. They find out I was moonlighting on their dime?” Clint wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Okay, no SHIELD,” Bruce agreed.

After opening the file, for a second or two, Clint had forgotten they’d been in a public restroom, probably under surveillance by whoever dropped the file there. Then his instincts kicked in and they’d gone back out, he’d made up an easy excuse, and they’d split up, Bruce and Clint heading back to the Tower, going through security then using the protocol for slipping out unnoticed, the new one Tony had instituted to hide their comings and goings. They’d come back together here, in one of Clint’s safe houses in Bed-Stuy.

“We call Rachel. Jace can get us there faster than any airplane with no digital trail. She and Ben can prepare a dossier; hell, she’ll probably have it ready when we call.”

“RJB Investigations? You trust them?” Of course, Phil knew who Clint was talking about.  Phil knew everything. He’d woken from his coma and immediately asked how Clint and Bruce were doing even though they’d started dating after Phil was stabbed by Loki.

“Hell no, but they already know enough to be dangerous, and they’ll keep things off the books.”  Clint had met the three mutants in Charleston, S.C., and they’d been very helpful in getting away from HYDRA and Ross, at least for a while. All of them had government and military backgrounds but they’d gotten burned out and chosen to go it alone, a fact Clint respected. “So, Nat and I go down there, find the girl, kick some ass. You two stay here and be our eyes and ears …”

“No.” Bruce growled, the Hulk’s deeper tones in his voice. “I’m going.”

“Bruce.” Clint turned. “We’ve just gotten to the point where people aren’t afraid of the Big Guy. Public opinion is changing; last thing you need is video and pictures of the Hulk smashing up Bogota on a personal vendetta.”

“Fuck that.” He was changing, green spreading up his neck. “I don’t care what people think. I know where you’re going and he can get there himself. There’s no stopping him.”

“I’m not going to mess up your life because of my fuck up. Not going to screw up anyone else’s either.” He only had a few good things to his name and most of them were right here, offering to walk into hell with him.  That knowledge twisted the knot tighter, unspoken emotion lodged in his throat.  “Last thing all of you need is your name connected to a washed up merc turned killer.”

“Cupid wrong,” the Big Guy said, still Bruce sized, thank God. “Hulk already screwed up, hurt many, doesn’t care what Cupid’s done. Go smash bad guy who hurts little girl.”

“She could be my daughter.” Clint winced at the word. “I used a woman, left her high and dry and pregnant. I knew what I was doing, damn it. Why would you want someone like that?”

“Because I love you. We all love you.” Bruce was back, his hand warm on Clint’s back, a tentative touch. “You’re more than worth it.”

“You are such an idiot.” Natasha chided. “Quit being a drama queen. Like none of us have black marks on our souls? This is your chance to erase this one, make it right and we’re damn well going with you, so shut up and deal with it.”

“God, why do I have such bossy people in my life?” Because, he knew, he needed someone to kick his ass often, make him a better person. “Okay, okay, Nat, Bruce and I go down and …” Phil’s calm cool stare stopped him. The agent didn’t have to say a word; when Coulson decided to do something, you got out of his way. SHIELD lesson 47. Clint sighed. “Fine. We all go.”

“I’ve got a contact in the Bogota Police we can work with. I’ll put in the call,” Natasha offered.

“I was in Soacha for a while, working at a free clinic run by nuns. They’ll know someone to talk to from the convent,” Bruce said.

“I know just who to tap for quiet extraction of information; she’s trapped in a cubicle down in the research office. She can get what we need.” Phil used one of their burner phones. “And I know just who to use as our Tower insider to get access to JARVIS. We’ll need equipment, phones, money … I assume you have a stash here?”

“Updated just a few months ago.” As if this was a regular op, they were falling right into planning mode.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Transportation?”

“I’ll have Jace meet us here once we’re ready to go,” Bruce answered, taking Clint’s phone. Events were spinning out of his control; Clint sat and listened to the swift flow of words. Bruce squeezed his knee, Natasha bumped her leg against his, and Phil’s mouth quirked up in the tiniest of smiles.

Pushy. The lot of them.

And, dear God, he loved them all.

* * *

 

“No, Phil … just no,” Clint protested as Melinda May came through the doorway. “I thought we agreed. No SHIELD.”

“Nice to see you too, Clint.” She was dressed all in black, her leather jacket buttoned up against the cool wind outside. “And I’m so far down in the bowels of records that I don’t think I count anymore.”

“Your choice,” Phil reminded her.

“And I stand by it. Whatever this little party, I’m not combat ready.” She glanced at Natasha, gave her a respectful nod, offered a half smile to Bruce. “Research, I can do. No one will be any wiser considering the amount of paperwork I already handle.”

“That’s all we need, Mel,” Phil assured her. She shrugged and walked to the window, checking the perimeter as she went. You could take an agent out of the field, but the training remained. Bruce looked askance at Clint but Melinda’s story wasn’t his to tell. What was the phrase? There but for the grace of God.

“Let’s get started.” Clint wanted to get this part over with as soon as possible. Rehashing old memories in front of others wasn’t his idea of a fun evening, especially when he’d originally planned to be celebrating his wedding night right about now.

“We’ve got one more coming,” Phil said. “Might as well wait on him before you …”

With perfect timing came a knock on the battered wooden door. Clint opened it to see familiar blonde hair and blue eyes. “No. No. No.” He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but this was getting out of hand. “Phil!”

“Don’t worry; I’m not going to tell Tony anything.” Steve entered the room, nodded at the others and closed the door himself.  “We haven’t had the pleasure,” he said to Melinda.

“Melinda May and you’re Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

“Tony just accepted you leaving during the homecoming sex marathon? He’s eavesdropping, got a parabolic mic pointed right at us by now.” Clint couldn’t believe it. Melinda’s eyebrows rose, but Steve took it all in stride. Never mind that the safe house was covered by Tony’s best jammers; if Tony wanted to know what was going on inside, he’d find a way to do it, legal or not.

“Tony’s in the lab, has been for a good hour. Some new top secret project – don’t tell him I know it’s a present for my birthday. Thanks for the idea, by the way, Phil.” Steve walked over to Clint and put his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Jack.”

“Right in the middle of my backswing,” he returned. Damn it, Steve was good at saying just the right thing and reminding Clint of their past adventures together wasn’t fair. Steve accepted Clint’s unspoken apology and went to sit by Bruce.  They all waited for Clint to begin.

“Before I was recruited by SHIELD, I took a contract on Rogero Ochoa, the son of one of the original founders of the Medellin Drug Cartel. He’d become a liability but his father wouldn’t deal with him, so I was brought in to do it.” Clint tried to remember to breathe as the words tumbled from his mouth. “Rogero was just 21, but he’d left a trail of bodies behind him, all girls, the younger the better. The oldest was 12, the youngest 7-years-old.  Battered and raped, the bodies were found with designs filleted in their skin.”

“Tell me he died poorly.” Natasha’s face was impassive, but Clint knew the passion that burned behind that mask. She wasn’t joking.

“The compound was impossible to get into; the workers and the guards were members of the same families, all of whom owed their allegiance to Ochoa. So I identified a weakness and exploited it.” He showed them the first picture. “She was a maid in the main house, and I only knew her as Angel. I played on her fears for her youngest sister, seduced her so she’d get me inside. I did the job with extreme prejudice and left. Never looked back, didn’t really care to know what happened next.”

“It sounds like you rid the world of a killer,” Steve said as he passed the picture over to Melinda who’d come to stand nearby.  “No one would blame you for that.”

“Someone does. Tonight, this was left where I would find it.” Clint passed the article over, giving them a second to read it. “The m.o. is exactly the same as Rogero.”

“A copycat?” Steve suggested.

“Who wants your attention,” Melinda declared. “A protégée or a sibling, someone who wants to follow in his footsteps.”

“Rogero had a younger brother, Julio. Kid was fifteen and lived in the compound.” That was the ironic part of this all; Clint knew exactly who had sent him the folder and exactly what he wanted.

“What else?” Melinda was smart and blunt enough to speak her mind. “If it was just revenge, Phil would be working with the local police to solve the case.”

“This is personal.” He needed a deep breath as he laid out, the picture with the little girl and the birth certificate. Steve picked up the photo, down at the document, then back to Clint.

“You didn’t know,” Steve said, not a question, a statement. “She looks happy.”

Melinda had a little smile on her face. “She looks like trouble. Those knees. Been climbing a tree or crawling in the mud, I’d bet.” 

“It doesn’t matter if she’s mine or not.” Clint put the final picture on the counter. “He knows that I’ll come get her regardless.”

“Good God,” Steve breathed. Melinda curled a hand into a fist and flashed a look at Natasha. “SHIELD can send someone down there …”

Clint tossed the file, the name clearly visible. Steve waited; being in a relationship with Tony had taught him to bide his time rather than press the point. Melinda’s eyes widened and she cursed under her breath. “Well, I lost that bet. Always thought Ronin was a Navy seal. Phil, you dog, you knew and you still took my money.”

 “Didn’t I read a field report from, what, five years ago about an H.Y.D.R.A. operative selling performance enhancing drugs laced with rat poison? I seem to remember the name Ronin as the freelancer hired …” Steve stopped, the pieces clicking into place. “You’ve kept Ronin alive all this time? Does SHIELD know? Of course they don’t.”

“Why do you think I knew all those mercs to hire for Loki?” Clint shrugged. It wasn’t like he’d been a double agent, he’d just occasionally used the persona to get the job done … or to get a job done that needed doing. “Great way to gather intel.”

“So this Julio, J.O. I assume, knows you’re both Ronin and Hawkeye.” Steve liked to talk things out. “And he has a girl he claims to be your daughter from an illicit affair years ago. You want to go down and rescue her on your own to keep the information quiet and to protect her.”

“About sums it up,” Clint agreed. Put that way, it all seemed so reasonable. Maybe he should just call in SHIELD or let Tony go blow the place up with his repulsors. Why did he want to keep Ronin secret anyway?

“And you want us to do what?” Melinda asked.

Phil answered for him. “We need information on Ochoa and the compound, old surveillance reports from when we were trailing Clint pre-recruitment during the time of the first killings, anything SHIELD has that might help.”

“And me?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, why him?” Clint seconded.  He’d wondered what Phil thought Steve could do.

“Steve has backdoor access to JARVIS and Stark tech. Tony gave you override command, did he not? One that even he can’t break?” Phil looked at the blonde.

“Yeah. He insisted I have a way to access the system without worrying about him looking over my shoulder. Don’t think this was exactly what he had in mind though. And I’m not sure we should be lying to him and the others.” Steve held up a hand when Clint began to protest. “However, I understand not wanting to broadcast this information and that Tony has no filter on his mouth, so I’m okay with asking JARVIS for help. But, I reserve the right to change my mind if the shit hits the fan and you need us.”

He didn’t want to agree to it, but Bruce’s direct look and the nudge he got down the line of their connection swayed him. “Agreed. If I’m dying, you can get her out.”

“Pretty sure that’s my job,” Natasha said. “They can come clean up the rest of the mess.”

“We also need to fly under the radar; we know there’s a mole inside somewhere,” Clint continued. “Bruce and I could disappear for a few days, say up North to a little bed and breakfast? Tony would buy that and it’s believable.”

“And I can honestly say that I knew you were leaving and Tony was in the lab working on his secret project and didn’t want to be disturbed. Sometimes dating an obsessive science guy can be useful.” Steve offered.

“No one ever knows where the Black Widow is,” Melinda said. “But Phil going missing? Lots of people will notice.”

“Not if I’m working through potential mission files from my office in the Tower. Amazing thing about technology; emails can be sent, reports and requests for information, without being physically present.” Phil had a point; JARVIS would be able to send a steady stream of communication.

“With Thor gone, Tony in his lab, Carol and Hank busy with their projects, you might get three or four days on our end,” Steve said.  “I doubt you’ll need that long, though.”

“Why not?” Bruce spoke for the first time since they’d gotten there.

“You think it’s a coincidence that this happened now? Right in the middle of all of the fallout from Fisk? And suddenly a mysterious folder appears designed specifically to lure Clint away, expecting you to rush down there all alone. It’s connected, all right, even if we can’t see how.”

Everyone stared at Steve except Clint. He already knew this was a trap for not only him, but all of them.  And he didn’t plan on avoiding it, but going in head first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should admit I've only read a few of the Ronin comics. And I only decided to add Melinda here in her pre-Agents of SHIELD role.


	3. Journey to the Cross-Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans within plans and Bruce has a thing for being au natural.

THEN

“I’m leaving tonight,” Barney announced in a hiss as he crouched behind the brick wall, cigarette dangling from between his fingers. He’d taken up smoking because the older boys did it, and he wanted so much to fit in with them rather than be their victim. Their last home before this had hardened Barney; he’d learned from the woman’s boyfriend how to intimidate and slice deep with just words. Now, he ran with the very bullies Clint feared; yesterday, Barney had watched as one of his so-called friends tripped Clint at the top of the stairs. If his reaction had been slower, he’d have tumbled down the concrete steps, likely broken his neck before he reached the bottom, and Barney just stood there and laughed. Still, the orphanage was better so far for Clint. Here, there were kids his own age, strength in numbers, classes with teachers who sort of tried to make a difference, and a bedroom he only had to share with Barney. 

“W-w-w-where are you going?” Clint stuttered slightly, shirt too thin for the cool October night. Since the day their parents had died, it had been Clint and Barney against the system; even with the changes in his brother, Clint couldn’t imagine him leaving. Sure, he ran off for days at a time – just last night he’d skipped out after hours and was gone most of the night – but he always came back.

“The carnival’s leaving in the morning.  Man who runs the games said he’d give me a job. Make my own money and get the hell out of here.” As he spoke, Barney’s cuff rode up and Clint saw bruises around his wrist, an imprint of fingers. Barney’s eyes narrowed, and he jerked the too small shirt, trying to cover up. 

“Barney.” Clint wanted to ask, but knew better; his brother wouldn’t answer.  He’d stopped explaining things to Clint in the second foster home after catching the sixteen-year-old son holding Clint down on a bed. Tickling, that’s what the boy had said, but Clint had been terrified of those searching fingers that cupped him and squeezed.  Barney had beaten the kid half-to-death despite their size difference; the Barton boys were shipped out the very next day and branded troublemakers.

“Shut up, kid. When you’re older, you’ll understand. You do what you have to, okay?” He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed away from the wall. “Better than this shit. We could see the country, eat cotton candy all the time.”

“We?” Both joy and worry crowded Clint’s chest.

“You and me, Spud. Hell, maybe see our name in lights one day as a headliner. Could happen.”  Barney picked up a pack and slung it over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Clint thought about his new friend and Mr. Holloway the math teacher who’d said he was a good student. Then there was the clean sheets and warm room, the two comic books stashed under his mattress, and three pairs of pants. He’d just started making a place for himself here; did he really want to leave?

“Hey, if you want to wimp out and stay in this shithole, no skin off my back.” Barney’s face turned dark at Clint’s silence. “Wallace will be on your ass in a day, and I can give mine a rest. But you go right ahead and pretend they give a shit about you.” He turned to go, anger written in the set of his shoulders.

“No, wait, I want to go, really,” Clint grabbed for his brother, his voice rising in his panic. “It’s just … I wanna go get my stuff, okay? Just thinking of how to slip in and get it.”

Barney glared at him in the light of the waxing moon and then the anger bled off as he slumped down. “Yeah, use the drainpipe by the window. I’ll give you a leg up. Only what you can carry; I’m not lugging none of your shit around when you get all whiny and tired.”

Doubt gnawed at him like a rat working on an escape hole. Fear or not, Barney was his brother, his only family, and family stuck together. Clint had no idea what he’d do at a circus; hell, he’d never even been to one before, just seen it on the TV or read about it in battered books from the library. He remembered a lion tamer and a man who threw hatchets at a girl with balloons. Maybe they’d let him fill up the balloons or have a whip that cracked. Shimmying up the pipe, he tried not to think about the warm blanket he was leaving behind or the thin pillow that was still the best he’d had in a while.  Tossing as much as he could fit into the pillowcase, he hurried, worried that Barney would go without him and leave him all alone.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

NOW – BOGOTA, COLUMBIA

The sun was down by the time they got settled into the house in Bogota. Clint was coming to expect quality work from Rachel and her team, and they hadn’t let him down this time. Instead of a hotel where tracking a credit card would be easy and cash would stand out, he’d expected a fly-by-night arrangement with rates by the hour. But they’d arrived in the interior garden of a lovely home in North Bogota. Two cars sat in the garage – a Subaru Outback and a Jeep Cherokee – and Rachel had sent along laptops with firewalls. A stucco wall hid the house from the quiet suburban neighborhood, but just a few blocks walk was a lively street with shops and restaurants where families shopped and dined. A number of houses nearby were corporate rentals, leased out to some of the oil companies, so no one would blink twice at seeing new people. Along with three big bedrooms, full baths, and a gourmet kitchen, the house boasted a state-of-the-art security system, upgraded by Rachel’s brother Ben, the ex-NSA computer specialist, with all the bells-and-whistles. Jace, the ex-marine mutant who could teleport, had offered to stick around, help them out, and Clint had been sorely tempted to take him up on the offer. He was a handy guy to have around in a fight and the perfect under-the-radar component, a complete unknown variable. But Clint had turned him down precisely because of that fact. Jace, Rachel, and Ben were assets he wasn’t ready to burn through just yet; if Clint survived long enough, he might need their help later, and he wasn’t ready to call that marker in.

Natasha gave him a tap on the shoulder and promptly disappeared, off to track down her contact in the Bogota PD. Of all of them, she was the ace-in-the-hole, his endgame. If Julio had any brains to go along with the flow of information he must be getting from his sources, he’d know that Bruce was more than likely with Clint, so the Hulk would be a possibility. That was why Clint wanted to keep the Big Guy benched until the very last scene of this little play. Phil was the voice in his ear, the flow of information and lifeline back to the team and SHIELD. Clint figured they had about seventy-two hours before someone realized Phil was gone; this whole thing was going to be over in less than twenty-four, once they started the ball rolling, Clint estimated. That left Natasha as his primary backup and, if given a choice, he’d have her standing beside him when the world exploded every time. She’d make sure Margarita was rescued if Clint couldn’t; Julio might know all about the infamous Black Widow, but he’d never see her coming.

“The compound’s not airtight,” Phil said, tossing a section of the outer perimeter over to Clint’s screen.  “They use Vigilante Services for the security system. Top end, very expensive, the best in the world … and a wholly owned subsidiary of Stark Industries. JARVIS sent the backdoor to the code; we can enter here and be virtually unseen.  We’ll also have feeds from all the cameras and can override their monitors if need be. Got to love Stark’s insistence on ways in to everything he makes.”

“Tony Stark’s motto. It’s not paranoia if someone really is after you.” Clint zoomed in to the main house plans, pleasantly surprised by the realistic 3D rendering. “This is detailed. Stark tech again?”

“Combined with intel from a DEA informant who managed to get a walk through as part of the tech team Ochoa hired to wire the whole house. Guy was undercover for three years making a name for himself by putting Wi-Fi in the homes of some of the world’s worst drug dealers,” Phil noted. “Smart man. Didn’t use tech at all for his recon; he’s got an eidetic memory. Put in real Wi-Fi and stereo and panels to control the lights while he memorized the places.”

“Finally heard back from Sister Francis,” Bruce said as he walked into the dining room which had been turned into a makeshift command center; they’d covered the room with the best jamming device not yet on the market. Tony and his toys. “I’m going to meet her tomorrow morning; didn’t want to reveal anything over the phone, so she thinks I’m in town and just want to see how the clinic is doing. Seems some foundation poured serious money into the place a little over a year ago; they’ve got brand new equipment she wants to show off, a whole neo-natal unit that’s one-of-a-kind in the area. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

That last question was directed at Clint and, thankfully, he could answer it honestly. “I’ll give you three guess and only a billionaire crazed inventor counts. I caught Pepper asking questions about my old orphanage, the one I ran away from to join the circus; Tony’s been giving donations to all sorts of places through his myriad of companies and charities. Pretty sure that’s the answer.”

It was so Tony to do nice things quietly while being his usual pain-in-the-ass self. That was how Stark showed he cared; throwing money away by buying outrageous things for the people in his life. Lichtenstein paintings for the Hulk’s room, a 1941 World Series autographed baseball for Steve, and a wet dream of a lab for Hank and Carol. He’d given Clint a Ducati for Christmas, after all. Meanwhile, he funded free clinics that Bruce had worked at, created scholarships and internships for kids from the orphanage Clint volunteered at, and paid for continual upkeep on the graves of all the men Steve had served with in the war without saying a word.

“I’m not going to complain.” Bruce carried a steaming cup of herbal tea – where did he get that from? Was the kitchen stocked with their favorites? – and examined the screen over Clint’s shoulder. “Too many babies die because they can’t get access to something as simple as an incubator. I just wish Tony would tell me these things.”

“Nah, he doesn’t want the world to know he’s a pushover under that smartass exterior. I can understand that impulse.” Clint stopped to watch the play of light on Bruce’s face as he took off his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt tail and put them back on with even more smudges than before. The simple act was so familiar that Clint felt a pang in his chest at the sight.

“Is this how we’re getting inside?” Bruce asked, his eyes following the schematics. Clint shot a look at Phil behind Bruce’s back.

“No, that’s how Natasha is getting in. She’s the ghost on this mission.” Clint dreaded the next question, knowing where the conversation was leading.

“Ghost?” Bruce asked.

“They won’t know she’s there until she wants them to,” Phil answered.  He raised his eyebrow, his way of telling Clint to get on with it. Bruce needed to know the plan; the others had worked together so long, they were practically psychic about the best strategies.

“And what about the rest of us?” A note of bass crept into Bruce’s voice; he suspected.

“Just Nat and I will be on the ground. Phil’s the handler, and you’ll be with him, the reserve team.” And there it was, laid out before them. Bruce’s eyes flashed and green mottled his skin.

“No. No way are you going in there without the Other Guy.  What are you thinking, that you’ll just walk right up and knock on the door? Hey, here I am, give me the girl, please, thank you?”  Bruce was angry and growing bigger as he spoke. “Not a good plan. Hulk going with Clint to smash bad guy and save our girl.”

If he’d had time, Clint’s jaw would have dropped, and he’d have stared at the half-formed big green guy at the use of the plural pronoun. But he was too busy keeping the Hulk from crashing through the ceiling and destroying the room. “Listen to me, Big Guy. Just give me a second to explain, okay? Don’t get any bigger; we need to stay under the radar right now.”

The Hulk huffed and shrank back to only slightly bigger than a full-time bodybuilder, stomping his feet a little like a petulant child before he grumbled, “Okay. Cupid say why he has stupid idea.”

“We don’t know where Julio is keeping Margarita or even if she’s in the compound at all, so we can’t go in, knock down walls and get to her. Odds are, he’s expecting that frontal assault. Plus, I’m sure he’s connected to the whole Morden/Fisk mutation and super-soldier scheme, remember? We need stealth to find out what exactly is going on.” Clint spoke calmly and with what he hoped was confidence. “Natasha’s going in quietly to case out the place and will pass the information on to Phil to examine. You’ll be close by; once we know what we’re up against and formulate the plan of attack, you have the most important job of all – making sure Margarita is safe. I’m trusting you with this, Big Guy. You’re the only one who can do it.”

“Hulk protect Cupid and girl,” he argued, but he was decreasing in size, Bruce exerting control again. “Do both.”

“She’s your first priority. I can take care of myself; she’s only fifteen.” Clint knew he’d gotten through when Bruce lifted his hand to rub his forehead. 

“And what about you?” Bruce asked, a tired slump to his shoulders as he gave in. “You’re the distraction, aren’t you? To give Natasha time.”

“It’s what I’m good at,” Clint mock protested. “He’ll be so wound up dealing out his dastardly scheme that he’ll miss her. And don’t forget that I can contact you in a way he won’t expect and can’t control. You’ll always know where I am.”

“Oh God, Clint.” Bruce picked up his tea cup to take a long sip; his fingers shook slightly, the porcelain clinking as he sat it back down. “Is this what you do when you go off on missions? Throw yourself into the volcano like a sacrificial victim?”

“Hey, at least you didn’t call me a virgin, Doc,” Clint joked, but he couldn’t get a glimmer of a smile from Bruce.

“This isn’t a standard mission,” Phil said, injecting himself for the first time into the conversation. “Normally, Clint would be considered compromised and pulled off the strike team. But in this case, he’s right; Ochoa is obsessively fixated on Clint. SHIELD has been monitoring the situation and the young man’s mental state is deteriorating, growing more and more erratic, noticeably so in the last ten to twelve months. He won’t be able to resist the temptation Clint presents.”

“He wants to kill Clint. Are you really okay with knowing that he’s walking into the hands of a serial killer?” Bruce asked Phil. Clint shifted, uncomfortable with this turn of conversation.

“No. I’m never comfortable sending any agent into a dangerous situation. But there’s a chance we might be able to follow the trail back to whoever is pulling the strings on this information sharing party of the world’s villain network. We have viable information that Ochoa is in communication with someone who’s encouraging his vendetta. We’ve got to take the shot, Bruce. And Clint is more than capable of doing this.” Phil always made even the craziest of ideas sound so feasible.

“I know Clint can do it, if anyone can. I just don’t have to like watching him walk into a blender without me.” His brown eyes met Clint’s, the emotions clear. Clint didn’t want to think about not coming back either, but it was part and parcel of his job. Reaching out a hand, he touched Bruce, running his palm down Bruce’s arm in comfort.

“His name is Daniel Reiz, son of one of the gardeners,” Natasha said from the doorway. She tossed Phil a jump drive; he plugged it in and a picture came up on the screen of a young man with dark brown hair and big dark eyes. He was skinny, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and was wearing a Catholic school uniform. “The picture’s a few years out-of-date. He’s eighteen now and studying Ornamental Horticulture at Penn State. Kid contacted the DEA himself and offered his help; seems the younger Ochoa is a real nightmare and daddy Ochoa is semi-retired, leaving the whelp in charge. All the parientes, the families who work for them, are scared but can’t leave. DEA put him in touch with a local agent.”

“Kid’s inside now? Can we use him to target the location?” Phil asked, all business.

“He’s in the States and won’t be home until the end of his first semester.  State College isn’t all that far from New York; if we could get someone out there to talk to him, we could ask where Julio keeps his playthings.” Natasha dropped down into a dining room chair and propped her feet up in another after kicking off her boots. “Seems Reiz might be smitten with one of Julio’s girls, according to my contact, so he may know where they’re kept.”

“May still has her flight rating and keeps her certification up-to-date. She could be there in a few hours; maybe Steve could go with her. Mel can wring a confession from a hardened criminal, but a teenage boy might find her a little overwhelming.” Phil picked up one of the many phones he had spread on the table and began a text message, the first in a series of coded missives used to throw anyone off their track.

“What’s our timeline?” Natasha studied the layout on the screen with a practiced eye. “JARVIS get all the flight plans arranged?”

“Earliest arrival would be about 10 a.m. local time, assuming a private jet.  JARVIS created video footage of him leaving about one a.m. Eastern standard and filed a flight plan for one of Tony’s jets to leave at 3:30. But we also booked three commercial flights in different names on major airlines, and they range from 6 six hours direct to over 10 hours with a layover. So Ochoa will have to expend some energy watching the airports,” Phil explained.

“Good. That gives you time to sleep.” She pushed back up, fluid and smooth as always. “You two didn’t get any downtime since your last mission and you know my rule about working with zombies. Don’t make me enlist the Hulk’s help.” She eyed Phil and Clint.

“There’s too much to get done,” Clint argued.

“I’ll take the second watch,” Phil ignored him. “Not as young as I used to be; a couple hours sounds good. You’ll need to coordinate the visit with May, and I’m waiting on those reports from the local PD.  They should be in within the hour. I’ll take the downstairs bedroom.” He gave Clint a pointed look and left the room. The message was hard to miss.

“Bruce, I’ll send him up in just a few minutes.” Natasha didn’t need to explain that she wanted to have words with Clint. “Mostly intact.”

“You’re on your own,” Bruce said as he passed. 

“Is this a shovel speech about not hurting Bruce because you’re a little late for that.” He went for flippant, but it came out far too whiny for his comfort.  Not that Natasha hadn’t heard him complain before, usually just before she kicked his ass.

“You need to get your head on straight or I won’t let you within a mile of that compound.”

“Excuse me?” That pissed him off. “Who made you my keeper?”

“You did. Remember Helsinki?” She said. Damn. He’d forgotten that little drunken confession; he’d been ready to leave SHIELD and she’d talked him out of it. “We do this, we do this smart. That means you leave all your baggage behind and go in cold and clear. Stop thinking you’re a fuck-up. That girl needs you at your best, not half-dead already from beating yourself up. Suck it up, go upstairs, take that handsome doctor who loves you for some unknown reason to bed, and get some sleep.  Then we’re going to get her.”

She always could cut right to the heart of the matter. “Assuming Bruce still wants me, I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” He saw the smile in her eyes as much as on her face. “Kick me anytime.”

“I will when you need it.” She shooed him out of the room as she settled in front of Phil’s laptop. “Now get going.”

The hanging stairs of the modern home were lit by soft runners along the outside; the walls were large concrete slabs left unfinished grey. They’d dropped their bags in the master at the top of the staircase, and Clint pushed the door shut as he entered. Bruce had kicked off his shoes and Clint’s tongue froze in his mouth, all the things he wanted to say trapped behind it.

“After everything we’ve been through, you have to know that I’m not going to change my mind because of something you’ve done in your past.” Bruce just confronted it head on. God, Clint loved that about the man.  “And I agree with what the Other Guy said. We might not have made it to the church on time, but that’s a formality. I’m already in this for the long haul.”

“Jesus, Bruce, just take all the wind out of my sails.” Clint felt his anxiety begin to dissipate. “Next you’ll tell me I’m not a self-centered bastard for wanting to get you naked instead of talking about our feelings.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Bruce began unbuttoning his shirt. “No way am I sending you off without kissing you senseless.  And you know the Other Guy’s going to want a cuddle. So take off your clothes, will you?”

He couldn’t be this lucky, could he? No “why didn’t you tell me” or “how can I trust you” or the dreaded “we need to talk”? He realized he was hesitating; Bruce already draped his shirt across the back of a chair and was working on his pants. Catching the edge of his t-shirt, he pulled it up over his head and hurried to catch up. They’d left their suits back at the Tower in those brief moments before they’d headed to the safe house; Clint kept go packs ready to grab and he’d taken time to add one for Bruce in the NYC stashes in case Ross had shown up again. The need to run was always lurking in the shadows every day and preparations were a habit Clint would never break.

“You know how I feel about nature, right?” Bruce plucked a tube out of the pack and tossed it onto the bed. He circled Clint’s wrist with his long fingers and tugged him towards the bed. Clint’s jeans were open, hanging off his hip as Bruce sat him down on the edge and knelt to help untie his boots. The question seemed odd, but Clint went with it.

“I do eat at the same table with you and Tony. Fracking 101 I believe was the last, ahem, discussion the two of you had.” He enjoyed the view, the long line of Bruce’s spine curving as he bent his head to focus on his task. Clint couldn’t resist swirling his fingers along the shoulder blades as they moved.  “Not sure what your passion for the environment has to do with this. Oh, wait, naked equals natural, right? Is that it?”

Setting the boots aside, Bruce slid his hands up Clint’s thighs, along his chest and pushed him backwards onto the bed. With a swift tug, Bruce yanked Clint’s jeans down and quickly divested him of his underwear. Then he crawled onto the bed, on his hands and knees, hovering over Clint.  “You’re going to think I’m crazy …” He aligned their bodies as they both shifted back from the edge into the center of the bed.

“Yeah, sorry, crazy train has already left the station for both of us. Normal isn’t a word any of us can use anymore.” Clint wondered exactly what Bruce was getting at, and why he was waiting when Clint’s fingers were itching to do more than wrap themselves around Bruce’s shoulders.

“It’s just, naked is open, right? Nothing to hide, no masks to wear, just us. Everything laid bare, out where we can see it.” He was driving at something, but Clint still didn’t follow.

“You’re going to have to be plain, Doc. Just say it.”  He swiped his thumb along the side of Bruce’s face, running his fingers into the dark curls. “Pretty sure I’m going to say yes to whatever it is.”

“Damn it, the timing’s never going to be right, is it?” Bruce took a breath, and the smile that spread across his face was soft, full of promise and emotion, the kind even Clint rarely saw. “Fine, we’ll just do this ourselves. I’ll see if I can remember how it goes.”

Clint cocked his head and waited.

“I, Robert Bruce Banner, take you, Clinton Francis Barton ….” He began.

“Wait, wait, what?” Clint interrupted, pushing up on his elbows and forcing Bruce to sit back on his heels. “You want to do that here? Now? Like this?”

“Yes. Here. Now. Like this. Before you leave. So you know that I mean it.” A shadow of doubt clouded his eyes. “If you don’t want …”

“Yes, yes, hell yes, Doc, you just surprised me. I mean … well, the photos will be a bit awkward to post on Facebook, but what the hell.” Thing was, Clint hadn’t realized just how much he did want to know that Bruce still felt the same. “Sorry for interrupting. You go right ahead so I can repeat after you.”

Leaning back down, Bruce dropped a quick kiss on Clint’s lips then started over.

“I, Robert Bruce Banner, take you, Clinton Francis Barton to be my husband … in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse from this day forward, so long as we both shall live.” He was grinning again, a sappy love-struck smile that Clint knew he’d remember forever. “Oh, hell, Clint. I can’t remember all of it. If you’ll have me, I’ll let you.”

He bit back his laugh; this was perfect. “I, Clinton Francis Barton, take you, Robert Bruce Banner, and you, the Hulk, to be my husband for better or worse, in sickness and health, for bigger or smaller as long as we all live.” Rolling them over, he trapped Bruce beneath him. “I’ll take every part of you as often as you’ll let me until I can only _think_ about taking you in a manly fashion and even then I’ll still want you.”

“Even if we can just dream about it,” Bruce chuckled; he put a foot flat on the bed, settling Clint’s partially aroused cock next to his own already half-hard one.  “Shouldn’t someone say husband and husband now?”

“You just did, Doc, but I’ll second it. Doesn’t matter now, you’re mine. Can’t run away anymore, okay?”

“We run together.  That’s a promise.  Can I kiss you now to seal the deal?”

“As you wish.”

Clint was happy that Bruce’s kiss wasn’t pure and sweet, but the sexy plundering that he liked the most. He opened his mouth and invaded the moist recesses with his tongue. It wasn’t legal, of course, but just hearing the words out loud settled his fears and made him feel that there was something permanent in his life.  Rolling his hips, he used the slide of bodies to work both of their cocks along each other as they kissed; he pushed the tiny frisson of awareness back when it crept into the base of his skull. Tomorrow was tomorrow, he told himself, and this was now. Whatever was going to happen, he had a family, friends, people who cared about him now. He knew love and that was, in the end, worth it all.

He settled back so he was balanced on his knees, pushing Bruce’s thighs apart and resting them on his own.  The move left Bruce spread out before him, and Clint began to trace the lines of Bruce’s chest with broad slow strokes, memorizing the curves left by the lean muscles. He catalogued the places where Bruce jumped, when he closed his eyes, when his breathing speeded up, and when he moaned low in his throat. With easy thrusts, he kept rubbing their cocks together, and they both hardened, pearly drops leaking as Clint drew designs along Bruce’s thighs, inside and outside. He reached for the tube buried in the covers.

“Angel’s grandmother had the sight.” For some reason, the story came tumbling out; Clint had never told anyone what she’d said to him that night fifteen years ago and now seemed the oddest time to mention it, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Supposedly, she inherited it and she told me some things that night, things I didn’t believe and didn’t want to hear. Told me that we were important, would ‘change the fate of the world.’ You can imagine what I thought of that. I assumed she meant me taking out Rogero.”   Slick fingers brushed the sensitive area just behind Bruce’s balls then circled, Clint’s hand finding all the right spots to tease. He dipped his head back down and caught one of Bruce’s nipples, worrying it in his teeth before he continued. “Strangest thing, though, was that she said I’d be back, but a different me.” He glided his palm along the hard ridge of Bruce’s cock. “Felt bad about her making me out to be all white hat when I wasn’t.” The pad of his thumb pressed along the cleft in the flush head and Bruce moaned, pushing up with the balls of his feet to get more leverage. Sitting up, Clint used his other hand to smooth more gel around the tight muscle before he eased a finger inside. “But then she told me I wouldn’t be alone and we’d save the world not once, not twice, but a dozen times over before we were done.” Advance and retreat, loose fist around Bruce’s cock, hot clench around his fingers … the scent of arousal hung heavy in the air as the words sank around them.

“Clint,” Bruce groaned his named, looking at him through eyes hooded with pleasure. “You aren’t alone anymore.”

“I know.”  He wiped his fingers on Bruce’s thigh, slicked his cock and filled him slowly, a steady plunge into that heat he loved.  Seated all the way in, he ran his hands along Bruce’s thighs, up to his hips and settled there, tightening his hold as he held Bruce steady, calming the shivers that ran through his lover’s body. “I have both of you. And you have me. In ways I could never have imagined back then.”

He felt the clench of Bruce around his cock, so good and so tense, and if he shut his eyes, he could sense Bruce’s emotions, the stretch and burn of arousal. A pulse out and back in, and Clint felt the ripples of it through their connection, like a doubling effect.  He fell into an easy pace of thrusts, riding the waves, building them gradually until the distant echo of the Hulk was there like a pair of arms wrapped around both. They didn’t need words; the closer to the edge, the stronger the connection became. Clint could hear Bruce’s love, as steady and calm as he was at his most controlled and as wild and large as the Hulk at his angriest. He answered back his trust and surety, the unshakeable faith he had in this man who’d just promised him forever.  The waves began to crest as they neared the end, ten minutes or thirty or however long, time lost to the sensation of plunging and rising together until they crashed into the shore.  Clint’s fist stroked Bruce to his climax, and he came with a wordless cry, squeezing around Clint, ensuring that he followed quickly.

Bruce rolled them over onto their sides and they lay together, lazy kisses unrushed by need. They touched and smoothed across bare skin, slowly cooling, uncaring of the sticky mess of their bodies. Murmured words of endearment, looks that exchanged volumes, long drawn out sighs – Clint hid his head in the curve of Bruce’s neck, sure he looked like the besotted fool which he was.

“She was right. You are a hero and you’ve saved the world a few times already.” Not one to let it go, Bruce tucked his fingers into Clint’s hair and messed it up even more. “Maybe she did have a gift.”

Naked, sated, his emotions wide open, Clint had to tell him the rest. “She said one more thing. It was so strange I didn’t give it a second thought until now. ‘Good fathers can change the fate of the world.’ God, I thought she was talking about Ochoa; never entered my mind she could mean me.”

“Clint, look at me.” Bruce held Clint’s face between his hands, their bodies still intertwined. “This is the worst time to talk about this, but you know I can’t have children of my own, right? The accident and the radiation – it’s just not possible.”  Clint couldn’t look away from the pain in Bruce’s eyes, a wound so old it had become part of who he was. “Whatever happens – if she is, if she isn’t – whatever you decide to do with that information – I’m with you, okay? I mean, I’ll help you raise her if you want to do that. Or we’ll find a good place for her where she’ll be safe. Whatever you want.  Just know, all options are open for discussion.”

“Bruce.” Too overcome to find the words to answer him, Clint kissed him instead, holding him as close as he could, wrapping himself around Bruce’s strength.  “God, I love you.”

He could feel Bruce hardening again against his thigh, so Clint raised his leg and notched it between Bruce’s providing friction. With a growl, Bruce rubbed along the skin, quickly leaving a sticky trail where the tip of his cock bumped Clint’s hip. This time, there was urgency, as if naming the problem brought it into the room. Too soon for Clint to come again, his cock still stirred half-heartedly, his heart ready even if his body wasn’t.  That was okay though because Clint knew what Bruce liked, and he could enjoy Bruce’s release along with him. Breaking the kiss, Clint rolled over onto his other side; Bruce pulled him back against his chest, pushing Clint’s top leg up in front of him. Lips tugged on Clint’s ear, worked their way down his neck to the very spot where his artery pumped in time to his heartbeat; Bruce latched on and sucked hard, marking Clint as his just as he’d done before.  Teeth grazed his neck and Clint groaned as the pulse of Bruce’s desire flooded into Clint. He ignored Bruce’s scrabbling to find the lube, reveling in the feel of Bruce around him, the safety of being held so tight.

Still sated and relaxed from before, Clint opened easily for Bruce’s slick fingers, and Bruce whispered the list of things he’d love to do to Clint against the skin as if to write them in place. Then Bruce was pushing in, filling him, sliding so deep Clint could feel him in the very bottom of his soul. Levering himself up, Bruce thrust hard, snapping his hips, and Clint rolled his shoulders flat on the bed, twisting at the waist so he could reach up and hold onto Bruce as if he was a lifeline.  The pace was faster, and Clint met each new thrust, jolts rolling through him when Bruce hit the right spot.  Bruce’s muscles tensed and he squeezed his eyes shut just before he came, dipping his head to rest on Clint’s shoulder as he shuddered through his second climax.

“Do you need me to …” Bruce flopped over to the side but he slipped a hand around Clint’s hip.

“Going to be a bit before I can get it up again,” Clint laughed, a tiredness sweeping over him. He closed his eyes for a second that turned into minutes and the parts of him that weren’t snuggled up to Bruce started to cool down.  The bed shifted as Bruce got up.

“Give me a second and I’ll be right there,” Clint mumbled.  Then Bruce was wiping him clean and big strong arms gathered him up, pulled back the covers and deposited him into the warm spot. He opened his eyes, as the Hulk crawled in beside him. “Not our bed, Big Guy, so you might want to watch the weight load.”

“Cupid like Hulk little?” He asked with a hurt tone in his voice.

“I like you every way, for bigger or smaller, remember? Just don’t want to go crashing through the floor, that’s all. Think I might sleep for a bit.” Clint didn’t complain when the Hulk, slightly bigger than Bruce sized, curled up behind him and held him tight.

“Hulk married?”

“Well, not technically, but in all ways that matter, Big Guy. You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good. Hulk take Cupid too.”

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

THE OCHOA COMPOUND, OUTSIDE OF BOGOTA, 3:42 P.M.

He waved at the camera, shifting onto the balls of his feet and bouncing.  Dressed in black, gold trim on his jacket as a nice little nostalgic touch, he rested his hands on the hilts of his katanas as he waited.

“Hello,” he called.

“¿Quien es usted?”  A voice asked. “¿Qué quieres?”

“Tell Julio that Clint Barton is here. I think you’ll find he’s expecting me.”

 


	4. The Uruk-hai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint walks into the lion's den ... and learns the awful truth about part of his enemy's plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: child abuse, torture of women are mentioned in this chapter. 
> 
> Clint's back story is different in the various Marvel universes. I'm staying true to the bigger points, but using my own discretion as to the specifics here.

THEN

He ran, tracking between tents, crouching behind stalls, trying to lose himself in the shadows. Ahead, the Big Top loomed, its flags flapping in the stiff wind, and he darted into the dark confines, hoping to find a place to hide. The stands were empty, trash still underneath from the performance earlier; he crawled beneath, hands and knees so sticky with dropped pieces of cotton candy and the fake butter from the popcorn. He froze at every sound, trying so hard not to crinkle any paper or rattle the rusty metal struts that held the boards above him.

“I know you’re in here, boy,” Duquesne’s voice echoed in the empty space. “You come on out and I’ll go easy on you.”

Clint wasn’t that gullible. No mistaking, the money in Duquesne’s hands was from Carson’s safe. He’d stolen it and Clint had walked in on him. The last few years had taught him Duquesne’s preferred method of dealing with problems, and Clint was firmly in the problem column now. He knew the Swordsman was going to kill him for what he’d seen.

Moving as quietly as he could, he kept going, aiming for the performer’s entrance. If he could get there, he might make it across the empty expanse and out into the night. His shoulder brushed a strut and he paused, waiting for a reaction; only silence greeted his ears. Where was Duquesne? When he spoke, Clint had placed him by the main entrance, but now he could hear nothing at all, no breathing, no footfalls, just eerie quiet. Clint’s own breath was harsh in his ears, too loud for comfort. Only one section remained before the opening. His heart thumped so hard he was sure it was going to blow out of his chest as he sized up the distance. Scooting closer, his eyes adjusted to darkness, he could see the dim light through the crack where the flap wasn’t tied tight enough. He could make it. The training he’d gotten from Duquesne was both a blessing and a curse. Taking to the bow like he’d been born with one in his hand, he was better now than both of them, more agile, more accurate. The Swordsman had become angry lately, taking out his frustration on Clint. Every time the crowd cheered for Clint and seemingly ignored Duquesne, the tension grew between them.

Why hadn’t he just walked away? Made some glib comment, taken a payoff and let Duquesne get on with whatever he was doing? But no, he’d had to threaten to call the cops, the worst thing he could say. Even now, after all the people who had lied and cheated and hurt him, had smacked him around and held him down and cut him until he bled, Clint still wanted to believe there was good in the world, that right and wrong mattered. Damn streak of heroism was going to get him killed, maybe today.

Still no sign of Duquesne and only a foot or so to go. He could sprint from here, make the exit fast and be gone before anyone knew it. Gathering his strength, he rocked a bit, tensing his muscles, then sprang forward, scuttling along in a crouch until he cleared the end of the stands.

“Got you.”

A hand reached for Clint’s sleeve, grabbing the cotton of his sweatshirt, and Duquesne towered over him, face hard set and half-shadowed. His fist caught Clint in the shoulder, and Clint rolled just like he’d been taught, going with the force of the motion. Twisting his slim torso, he wrenched his arm out of the sleeve, ducked his head, and left the bigger man holding a limp shirt. The exit blocked, Clint ran into the rings, curses following right behind as Duquesne kept pace, just a step behind. Catching the rope ladder, Clint clambered up, his small size an advantage in the race to the platform. Duquesne was larger, his old knee injury slowing him down as he climbed the rungs. Twice, Clint slipped, his hands slick with sweat, and Duquesne grabbed his pants leg. Shaking him off, Clint made it to the top, kicked off his shoes, and started across the tightrope. This, he knew, Duquesne couldn’t do. If he got to the middle platform, there was an access ladder to the top of the tent; Clint was often the one who crawled up there and helped anchor the whole structure during set up. He could wait it out there until morning or call out for help.

“I’d have enjoyed feeling you die beneath my own hands, boy.” Duquesne was out of breath, wheezing slightly. “Cocky little bastard, so sure of yourself. You would have gotten old one day too, Clint, and not been the star anymore. Someone better would come along and nobody would give a damn about a washed-up has been marksman. You might have understood if you lived that long … but you’re not going to.”

Clint was past halfway and he rushed it, trying to not listen to Duquesne’s words and focus instead on his balance. A vibration was his first warning; he dropped, reaching his hands for the rope, hoping to wrap himself around it before the Swordsman could shake it hard enough.

“Hell of a way to die, Clint.” Duquesne laughed. “But you always were going to fall one day.”

His hands missed, fingers barely brushing the rope before he was falling, gravity pulling him down towards the ground, no net beneath him. Face up, he could see Duquesne leaning over the edge of the platform, could watch the rope recede. His life didn’t flash before his eyes. He didn’t have time to think anything at all before the he slammed into the ground and pain engulfed him.

**NOW**

The Ochoa compound hadn’t changed all that much since the last time Clint had been there. Except this time, he had come in through the main gate, walking up the road towards the house with the rows of glass windows that reflected the glare of the afternoon sun and would provide spectacular views of the sun when it set in a few hours. There used to be a small grove of trees around a little pond just down the hillside, but it was empty ground now, no sign of the perch he’d used to steady his rifle and taken the shot that ended Rogero’s string of murders.  New security cameras were evident everywhere, tiny boxes that were still outdated by Tony’s criteria even though there were the latest available on the market. Men with guns roamed the yard, razor wire along the top of the wall, sensor plates on the front porch … all pointed to paranoia on Julio’s part. That tracked with the information Clint had crammed into his brain after he woke this morning. The Bogota Police had the Ochoa youngest son on the top of their suspect list, but his powerful family kept them from investigating further. People who went against the cartel disappeared into unmarked graves, and far too many of the detectives would rather take the pay off and keep quiet than risk their lives to solve the case.

Yet witness after witness told of a young man who’d been scarred psychologically from birth; his mother, an exotic dancer who snorted much of her generous allowance up her nose, taking payment in cocaine instead of cash, had died when he was only two-years-old. She’d dropped him off at Ochoa’s house without a word, leaving him to be raised by Rogero’s mother, a woman who believed in liberal use of the rod to silence the children. Bruce was the one who noticed the discrepancy in the autopsies. While the women were all beaten and raped before death, Rogero’s victims of fifteen years ago were all carved with symbols in their skin quite a while after their deaths. The current victims showed signs that the symbols were done both before and shortly after death. It chilled Clint to think that even at fifteen, Julio had already been working on the bodies; the working theory was that Rogero was a brutal thug, but Julio thought of himself as much more.

As if to confirm that impression, Clint walked into the first room of the house. Ultra-modern with stainless steel and black leather furniture mixed with old artifacts that looked to be museum quality. He recognized a stone with intricate scrollwork and a carving that looked like an ancient Inca god; the design was achingly familiar from the crime scene photos. Expensive paintings, tile floors – the interior could be featured in one of those design magazines, the kinds that always hounded Tony for access to Stark Tower. But it was too clinical, everything in place, nothing personal anywhere. The room set off all the warning bells that Clint had learned not to ignore in his years as a spy. All that as missing was a pet cheetah or some exotic animal … oh, wait, there was a large aquarium with bald python hanging off of a barren limb, long yellow stripe down its back. Yes, all the boxes for eccentric psycho were checked now. And that made Clint even surer that Julio was just the front man in this operation; experience had taught him that psychosis and well-organized plans did not go hand-in-hand.

“Nice digs,” Clint said to the guards. “Little too sterile for my taste, but better than that 80s crap that used to be here.” He had no idea if they spoke any English, but he sure wasn’t going to let them know he understood Spanish. “Snakes? Why’d it have to be snakes?”

“Este camino,” the lead guard said, a short man with a barrel for a chest and dark curly hair. He added a push with the muzzle of his automatic rifle to head Clint down a hallway. They passed a dining room with a two story high ceiling, a kitchen that was a chef’s wet dream, and then he was shoved out of a sliding glass door onto an interior courtyard. Lush green plants shaded the stone walkways; a clay fountain dominated the middle of the space with lounge chairs arrayed around the small lap pool beside it. The walls of the house blocked all but a square space of blue sky, eliminating any line of sight into the area.

Julio Ochoa looked young for his age. At 30, he could easily pass for a college student, his slim shoulders showing the line of his collarbone, his skin tan and brown, his chest smooth and hairless. A pair of Chrome Hearts sunglasses – complete with dagger design – rested on his nose. He wore white swim trunks and nothing else, just a white towel behind his head. The latest Starkphone was glued to his ear as he carried on a conversation about an auction, authorizing his agent to raise the bid. Looking over the top of his glasses with bored dark brown eyes, he waved Clint to take a seat in the other free lounge as he continued.

“Si. But no more than $500,000. I want it. Make it happen.” Julio ended the call and casually dropped the phone on the table before picking up his glass. “I love street art, but hate the latecomers driving up the price. Banksy’s getting far too well known; I’ll have to find another to collect. Martini?”

“Not really a martini drinker, thanks. More of a whiskey, man.” If Julio thought he could rattle Clint with this gracious host act, he was wrong. Bruce had taught Clint a lot about maintaining his calm and Tony was the king of inappropriate cocktail talk with villains. So he settled back, kicked his boots up onto the white cushion, leaving dirt in his wake as he got comfortable. “I wouldn’t say no to some scotch.”

“Alberto, get our guest some Glenlivet, please,” Julio directed the older man in white who was waiting by another entryway. “And have Constance make the preparations. I’m sure Agent Barton will want to meet his daughter soon.”

Straight to it then. “Actually, I’ll need some proof of that. Not a big fan of Maury Povich surprises. An independently verified DNA test would suffice. Blood drawn at a neutral facility … you understand.” Clint took the tumbler from Alberto, sniffed and swirled, then sipped.

“Of course. In this day and age, we must be sure. She is your child; Angel never slept with another man but you.” He wasn’t the best poker player. Clint could tell he thought he was twisting the knife with his little jabs. After Loki, Julio was the bush leagues. “I admit to being surprised you chose this method of entry. I expected a quiet break-in, to wake to find you with a rifle over my bed. Or are you leaving that to your colleagues, maybe the infamous Black Widow or that monster you are fucking?”

“Trust me, if the Hulk was here, you’d definitely know it. He likes kids and hates those who hurt them. I thought this was a quieter approach, don’t you think? You tell me what it is you want and we negotiate like grown-ups instead of pitching tantrums.” Clint shrugged; he’d expected Julio to know he wasn’t alone. But knowing Natasha was here and knowing what she was doing were two very different things. By now, she was in the compound somewhere, a complex program of shifting cameras creating dead spots for her thanks to Steve and JARVIS. Plus, Phil hadn’t even registered on Julio’s radar.

“Indeed!” Julio clapped his hands and sat up. “Much nicer. We can sit and have a long chat. I admit to being curious about you, how you went from being a gun-for-hire to the world’s greatest archer. A fascinating journey I’m sure.”

“I could ask the same of you, but then you always were a twisted little shit, weren’t you? Carved up big brother’s leftovers and graduated to making your own bodies to play with.” He smiled his best shark-toothed grin, shifting strategies to keep Julio off-balance. “Now you think you’re ready to play with the big boys, but you’re out of your league.”

Lines appeared on Julio’s brow as he scowled; he clutched the thin stem of his glass and drained the rest of his drink. “I am an artist; I make people better, a piece of beauty in our messed up world.” He visibly restrained himself, drawing in a deep breath.

“Right. Justification 101. Bigger question is why Daddy has left you in charge at all. Everyone knows you’re insane. Maybe the Padre is getting too old? Sick? No one’s seen him in a while.” Poke every angle, see what gets a reaction. Clint’s style wasn’t elegant, but it got the job done. Of course he usually ended up battered and bruised along the way.

“And how is Ronin? I hear he’s still active, took out that Saudi royal with a penchant for pederasty just a few years ago. Wouldn’t your beloved Avengers like to know who they have working with them?” Julio pushed back.

Clint laughed. “Tony Stark knows everything, haven’t you heard? If I remember correctly, I got a steak dinner after that one. Seems that child molesters are universally condemned to a special hell. What can I say? I’ve got a gift for ridding the world of bad seeds.”

“Dreamers are often misunderstood in their generation,” Julio said, getting defensive. “Mundane minds like yours can’t understand the benefits of being special, obviously, or you wouldn’t try so hard to stop the transformation, would let nature take its course.”

Ah, yes. Pay dirt. Julio did know about Fisk’s program; the only surprise was how quickly Julio had spilled the information.  “And that answers the crazy question. You’re ready for your close-up on CSI. You do realize that the wacko killer always ends up dead at the end of the story, right?”

He was getting angry, his eyes hardening, exactly what Clint was after. “I do what is necessary, like you used to. Rogero deserved to die; he was affecting the business, too busy with his girls and snorting most of the profit. His genes needed to be out of the gene pool. You knew that. But now you are this … whatever you’ve become … and you’ve forgotten that death is a necessary part of life.”

“I’m here, Julio. If you wanted me dead, I would be, so your plan requires my active participation. Get on with it. I’ve got better things to do than listen to you lecture me on the virtues of mass murderers.” Keep him guessing, change tones and subjects, and he’d tell Clint everything. Natasha had taught him that.

“Parties to go to with your friend Stark? He makes such wonderful toys,” Julio spun his phone in his hands, fidgeting it between his fingers. “Or your American Captain? I hear they are dating now like you. Stark I would believe, but the good soldier? Father is right; men aren’t men today.”

“Never would have pegged you for a Page Six gossip fan, but, hey, whatever floats your boat.” Clint took another drink and didn’t rise to the bait, letting the silence lengthen as Julio grew more agitated. Obviously this wasn’t the way he’d imagined the interview going.  “Seems to me you want to be the king of your little castle here.”

“You want to know what I want?” Julio couldn’t stop himself; Clint was counting on the brag factor. All villains, small or large, seemed to want to tell someone their plans. “I want to be the man my father thinks Rogero was. Simple, really. I bring him the head of the man who killed his beloved son on a platter then he will finally give me the reigns of the business.”

There was a kernel of truth there but most of the answer was practiced bullshit. “Easy enough to do. Just hire someone to take me out. No, you want me here, to torture for your own twisted pleasure.”

Alberto bent and whispered into Julio’s ear. The servant’s eyes lit on Clint for a split second then slid away. Not a good sign; the man was scared. Jumping up, Julio reached for the shirt Alberto held out, shrugging into the white button-up short sleeve. “Good. She’s awake. That will make this interview more exciting. Come. See why you’re here.”

Clint felt the pulse of concern from Bruce, not all that distant. He and Phil were in the nearest town, settled in to an old garage that was out of business. Between satellite imagery and JARVIS’ access to the Ochoa compound’s security system, they were probably watching Clint as he followed Julio down the hallway. The cameras weren’t even hidden; every angle seemed to be watched by a lens. He made no bones about checking out the locations, peering in open doorways and matching the layout with the map in his head. Along the way, he counted at least seven more armed men with the look of professional mercenaries, the kind who had no moral compass but cash on the table, a good sign. When push came to shove, money might get them to walk away. They weren’t zealots to the cause. But where were all the servants?

They turned down a staircase, wide and shallow marble that curved into a game room – billiard table, big screen TV, a fully stocked bar – and then through a small door that led to a more utilitarian set of stairs and a deeper level. Here the walls were unadorned concrete block, the temperature noticeably cooler, the security even more evident. Julio paused in a small side room where a willowy blonde sat behind a desk, fingers clicking over the keys of a blue laptop. Cold blue eyes looked up at them, peering over her black rimmed glasses. In her mid-50s, this woman’s face was dead, no emotion whatsoever.

“Senor Ochoa.” She had a heavy Norwegian accent. “She is prepared for you. Vitals are good; the medicine is working as expected. Slow but steady progress.”

“Good work, Constance. Let our guest see.”

A curtain drew aside from a thick window, revealing what looked like a hospital room on the other side of the heavily reinforced door. In the dim light of the room, the monitors cast a glow over the form on the bed; dark hair hung in unwashed hanks, thin arms covered in goose bumps were strapped down to the metal rungs of the uncomfortable gurney, and golden brown skin was faded, pale from exhaustion. Clint stepped forward without meaning to, his heart stopping as he saw the curving mound of her stomach, so far gone in the pregnancy that her belly button was protruding upward. His hands curled into fists and a red-hot range rolled through him; within seconds, an answering growl of anger fed back along the connection, the Big Guy reacting to Clint’s dark impulse to sink his hands into Julio’s neck. Only with years of practice did Clint manage to keep his face impassive as he willed himself calm and pushed back to tell the Hulk not to come smashing in just yet.

“You know I’m going to kill you.” Clint made the statement even and measured, like he was discussing the weather. “Daughter or not, you’re not going to live.”

“We’ll see.” Julio was positively gleeful; he’d lost all pretenses at being anything more than aroused by the pain on the girl’s tear streaked face. “Or I’ll be the father of a baby with quite a pedigree long after you’re in a shallow grave in the jungle.”

“You God damn son-of-a-bitch.” Clint’s vision whited out and he was moving before Julio stopped speaking, driving an elbow back into one of the guard’s nose, shattering it and leaving a splatter of blood. Spinning, Clint grabbed the muzzle of the second one’s gun, taking it from him and using the butt to break his cheekbone. Swinging it like a club, he went after the third, knocking him down. That left just the fourth and Clint needed only wave the AK 47 in the man’s direction before he raised his hands in surrender. Clint couldn’t fathom that depth of depravity; he never could, despite multiple examples over the years. To intentionally hurt a child, someone dependent on you, helpless and unable to defend themselves – a stone cold surety settled in his gut, the kind of lack of emotion Natasha called the killing zone. Not on his watch. Not to any child.

“That was a lovely demonstration.” Julio didn’t seem bothered by the barrel of the gun in his face or Clint’s determined glare. Instead he lifted his hand and showed Clint the square device he held there. “But you’re going to put down the gun and go quietly or I’ll use this.”

It was a trigger remote, designed to activate the nannites that had been introduced into Clint’s body and programmed to alter his basic DNA structure by enhancing his natural abilities. Richard Fisk had fostered the technology in order to create more Hulks for H.Y.D.R.A., but he’d also planned to make more mutations among the human population for his own army with super-human powers. He’d had a successful test, turning General Thaddeus Ross and his daughter Betty into Hulks before the Avengers had been able to stop him. Worst of all, Fisk had exposed Bruce and Clint then triggered their change.  The Big Guy and Bruce had developed a more symbiotic relationship, sharing memories and becoming able to control their shifts back and forth. Clint could see in the dark and his reaction time was much faster. All in all, the outcome wasn’t the worst it could have been.

“Fisk is in prison, or at least what’s left of him,” Clint spat. He’d had enough of this jackass. “Whatever they promised you? Great power, infinite riches? Yeah, no. Mab’s going to send someone who’ll take over your body, leaving nothing behind. Tell me who is running this freak show, and I’ll kill you quickly. My final and only offer.”

“Oh, I’m just the means to an end.” Julio nodded to the girl on the table. She was awake now, her blue-grey eyes – Clint’s eyes – staring out at them, wide and scared. Biting her lip so hard blood leaked from the edge, she refused to cry out, staying silent as she listened.  “You know that Angel was special? She had the sight, strong enough to avoid my ability to hunt her and her brat down until she was dead. And you, you’re just as much a freak as those sideshows in your precious circus. Take that mix of DNA in the girl and add mine? Alchemy. Magic. A vessel worthy of the Queen of Darkness.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This cluster was getting worse by the minute. Clint was ready to let the Big Guy go on his rampage. He knew real evil existed in the world, but the very thought of Julio with Margarita … she was fifteen fucking years old. Fifteen-year-old girls should be giggling about their first crush or sleeping over at a friend’s house, not laying on a bed in the house of her rapist, waiting for a father she’d never known to come rescue her. “I hate to break the news to you, but that little box isn’t going to stop me.”

“Of course it is.” Julio put his thumb on the green button and pushed. “You’ll do whatever I want.”

Clint braced himself, but the expected pain didn’t come. Julio had turned, pointing the device at Margarita with a look of glee on his face. The scream battered Clint’s heart as her body shook, back arching up even under the weight of the child inside of her. Thrashing, she jerked so hard the bed rolled and the straps strained. The gown stretched across her stomach and Clint could see the ripples across the taut skin as the monitors went crazy.

“Stop it!” Clint jammed the gun into Julio’s side.

Black tentacles wrapped around his arm and yanked the gun away from him. The nurse, Constance, was smiling, eyes alight with an unholy excitement, six of the long appendages looping around Clint and dragging him back.

“Come now. I know the destruction you are capable of. I have a few surprises of my own.” Julio didn’t, or couldn’t, tear his eyes away from the writhing form, holding down the button as Clint struggled to get free.

“Senor Ochoa,” Constant said, no hint in her voice that she was expending any energy at all. “We are on a tight schedule. She is not ready yet.”

With a small sigh, Julio moved his finger and tucked the device back into the pocket of his trunks. “Yes, yes. The Pitocin will do its job, I know. But a man has to have a little distraction now and then.” He turned to the nurse. “Check her dilation and contractions. Keep her slow and easy.” With a chilling smile, he turned back to Clint. “Help me get our guest to his room and the fun can truly begin.”

“So much for a quick death,” Clint told him as the tentacles pulled him along towards another door. And he meant every word. Julio Ochoa was going to die. The only question was by Clint’s hand or did he let the Black Widow have him to play with?


	5. The Stairs of Cirith Ungol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hallucinations started within the first hour, or at least that’s what Clint thought the clock said. He couldn’t really tell since the red dots melted every other minute and ran down the wall. Either they weren’t real, or Clint was having an in-depth conversation about wolves with Jon Snow and Arya Stark. He half-expected Darryl Dixon to show up with his machete and shotgun, but he got Alice and Dorothy and a nice tea party with the Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a trippy chapter. Clint's on major drugs and I've adopted a few conventions to help clarify. Any dialogue in traditional quotation marks is being said aloud. For internal dialogues or acid trip conversations, I've used ~~ instead. There are some references to other Hulkeye stories here (the locations of some of the trip conversations, for example).
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Julio is a sick fuck, okay? Attempted rape is mentioned along with child abuse. Torture is also in this chapter. 
> 
> see the end note for a full listing of all the characters and other connections Clint is making in his drug addled brain. I've provided links if you don't know who they or what they refer to.

**THEN**

He sighted down the shaft, arms steady despite the argument going on in his head. He was the Amazing Hawkeye, after all, and he never missed even if it was to shoot a man. How did he get here, he wondered? Perched in a tree high enough for a line of sight over the wall and into the compound, he was little more than a killer for hire. Not that he was going to get paid – Trickshot didn’t share money, just kept promising that the next job would be bigger, each one the score of a lifetime.

Ever since Barney ran off after Duquesne left Clint lying in the middle ring, bleeding to death, Clint had been on a downward spiral. His whole life the only constant was Barney. The Barton brothers, together against the world. When Clint had woken up in a hospital bed, the first thing Barney did was call him an idiot for not making a deal with the Swordsman. Then he’d walked out of the room and Clint hadn’t seen him since. Trickshot had been there for him, and the act had taken off, Clint getting his own show and top billing over even the aerialist twins. 

Somewhere along the way, Clint realized Trickshot wasn’t the mentor he’d needed but a drunken sot with a gambling addiction and debts that had to be paid. Buck had demanded Clint repay him and that was the beginning. Damn it, but Clint owed the man, and what the hell else did he have in his life? Everyone he’d trusted had abandoned him so far, so why should this be any different?

“Take the shot,” Buck ordered in his ear as he and his men ran across the green space towards Clint. “Take the fucking shot!”

His target turned a corner and Clint’s fingers released the arrow; it flew true, slamming into the man’s chest. Hands flew up to grab the shaft as the man fell, his blue-green eyes tracking the path back to where Clint sat. Clint was out of the tree and over the wall in seconds, running towards the house, not away from it. He skidded to a stop by the downed body and dropped to his knees, cradling the man in his arms.

“Barney,” Clint begged. “Be okay. Please don’t be dead.”

“Clint?” Barney asked, voice weak. “What the hell?”

“What the fucking hell are you doing?” Trickshot shouted in his earpiece. “Get your ass out of there or I’ll leave you to Marko’s torture techniques.”

“It’s Barney. I can’t leave him.” Clint covered Barney’s hand with his own as he replied. “Hang on. We’ll get you to the hospital. I didn’t know it was you,” he told his brother.

“Buck … knew … inside … man …” Barney tried to speak, blood dripping from his nose.

“God damn son-of-a-bitch. You’ll break in an hour. Get up, you fool,” Buck cursed at Clint. “He was going to rat us out.”

“No. I’m not leaving my brother.” Clint pressed his fingers to Barney’s neck to find the pulse faint, growing dimmer by the second.

“Very well then,” Buck agreed.                                                                                                                                                        

Clint heard the whistle, knew the sound, and turned slightly before the razor sharp tip pierced his skin and sank in. A slicing pain, shortness of breath as a lung deflated, and Clint tumbled onto his brother, together again as Marko’s men shouted in the distance, on their way.

“Who’s the world’s best marksman now, boy?”

**NOW**

At least Julio had good taste in bondage equipment. The leather cuffs around his wrists were supple and soft; no bleeding or leather burn. Just the prick of needles full of loopy juice and whatever Julio had planned for the very sharp set of custom knives on a tray by the door. Clint eyed them one at a time, most of them far too familiar; Natasha had a set from Busse Combat, one of the best in the business, though hers were weighted for throwing, not serrated for maximum damage.

Tentacle Lady was much stronger than she looked; as one set of tentacles held Clint down, another had tied him down, while yet another prepared the syringe that sent Clint off into psychedelic world. The room shifted in and out of phase, walls flexing as ripples circled out from the gurney Clint was tied to. Like one of those old rotating color wheels that shone on silver Christmas trees, the very air went blue then green then red then yellow. Whatever this shit was, it would be worth a lot of money on the open market.

The hallucinations started within the first hour, or at least that’s what Clint thought the clock said. He couldn’t really tell since the red dots melted every other minute and ran down the wall. Either they weren’t real, or Clint was having an in-depth conversation about wolves with [Jon Snow and Arya Stark](http://www.hbo.com/game-of-thrones). He half-expected [Darryl Dixon](http://www.amctv.com/shows/the-walking-dead) to show up with his machete and shotgun, but he got [Alice](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice's_Adventures_in_Wonderland) and [Dorothy](http://thewizardofoz.warnerbros.com/) and a nice tea party with the Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter instead.

When Julio Rogero came in the room, Clint wasn’t sure he was actually there because he kept cutting in and out like static on a television, changing into classic villains instead of a bat shit crazy serial killer who probably had all kinds of torture in mind for Clint. Kind of hard to keep his answers straight when Barnabas Collins (the classic’s [Jonathon Frid](https://www.google.com/search?q=dark+shadows+jonathan+frid&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=fraPUvRok-WwBJqOgNgH&ved=0CDoQsAQ&biw=1366&bih=642#facrc=_&imgdii=_&imgrc=-KB7lNsglrTPoM%3A%3BtYHx_LilFBnpwM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.blogofdarkshadows.com%252Fwp-content%252Fuploads%252F2012%252F04%252FBarnabas.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.blogofdarkshadows.com%252Fpage%252F2%252F%3B700%3B579), not [Johnny Depp’s](https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcROaA3zYX23TDGzLxq8QcpQbl4Tawr3vTlAAP6PFy3EQiEoICVRPg) new version) was asking the questions.

“Sorry for the delay,” Barnabas said. “I wanted to give the drug time to work. Quite a trip isn’t it?”

“Disneyworld it’s not, but people would pay good money to interact with their favorite stars.” At least Clint still had snark to fall back upon.

“Unfortunately, the side effects are quite … unique. Opens your mind for them to gain a foothold, but most people aren’t strong enough to handle it.” [Apothis](http://stargate.wikia.com/wiki/Apophis) shrugged, his eyes glowing with a golden light. “Did you know brain matter is almost impossible to clean off a good suit?”

“It’s a bitch, but alien goo is worse.” Focusing was difficult; seams were opening in the walls, long and blue and starting to unravel. His feet were lifting upwards, like gravity at work, gathering him in to the opening.

“You know they’ve been preparing you as a perfect vessel.  You, your lover, Stark, and the soldier … all of you. Normals, well, they can’t handle the power. Mutants, supers, we’re the best candidates. Even then not all are successful on integration.” [Joffrey Baratheon](http://gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/Joffrey_Baratheon), the little shit, spun on the stool as the universe began to expand behind him. “If the drug doesn’t blow your mind, then we can have a family reunion on both sides of the rift.”

“[Then another one bites the dust](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rY0WxgSXdEE)?” Clint’s head was filled with the lyrics, skipping from one song to the next as Freddie Mercury sang in his head. Trying to focus, he couldn’t stop his mind from spiraling up and out of his body. “Or [does nothing really matter](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3p4MZJsexEs)?”

“Ah, it’s taking effect. Soon you’ll see,”[ Lucifer](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=Lucifer), the Supernatural version with Mark Pellegrino, smiled, towering over Clint. “Trust me, this won’t hurt a bit.”

Turns out, the [special effects guys from Stargate](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1XfMti_Gxk) weren’t too far off; as Clint’s conscious accelerated the stars became streaks of clear light, narrowing and funneling him further and faster. Dropping in and out, like a series of images fanned out and flipping past, Clint watched as the tip of the knife broke his skin, a thin well of red curling into the shape of a constellation as he sped by. Disparate stars connected into patterns, blood ran along his skin, and he could see the whole galaxy, no the universe, laid out on display inside of him. He could understand it all, the way every detail flowed together, the barest of seconds to the eons since the sun kindled into light. Beginning, middle, and end – no wonder Eric Selvig had wanted to stay here.

~~Cupid.~~

Turning in space was effortless; being strapped down didn’t stop Clint from scattering his atoms and flying free. The Big Guy was in the room, body pulsing with the energies of the heavens, larger than a planet but small enough to fall into the slices that circled Clint’s chest. Opening his mouth, Clint couldn’t speak words, could only silently scream.

~~Clint.~~

Arms came around him, stars slipping between their interlaced fingers, hands held him tight as the design took shape. ~~Bruce, you should see this.~~

~~He can’t. We’re hallucinations.~~ Steve in his suit, the white star replaced with a nova, the thin cuts parting the material, letting the cosmos bleed out. 

~~But then you know that. You know everything now.~~ Tony, red metallic paint dripping off the table and onto the floor, faceplate transparent, a feral grin on his face.

No struggle, no fear, no body, Clint wandered right to the edge of the known and peered over into the abyss.  Staring back at him was a brown haired girl, huddled with her knees up to her chest; blue grey eyes begged without words and she held out her arm, the stars marked in scars that decorated her skin.

~~Papá? No dejes que me lleve.~~ Tiny voice, almost lost in vastness, lit by flashes of the knife.  She weighed next to nothing, so light she floated away when he reached for her, leaving bloody handprints on her blue pinafore. Swirls of comet trails adorned her face, and she clung to him, shaking.

~~I won’t, Becca,~~ he promised even though he knew he couldn’t, curling his body protectively around hers as a thousand meteors laced his back, stings of the sharp point that dug into his very soul. In the distance, the sound of horns and baying dogs, the hunt begun for them; exposed with nowhere to hide, she rattled the restraints around her arms and cried out as a contraction rippled through her whole body.

_“Clint!”_

The tug knocked him off balance, and she was gone, fading into the dark spaces between the stars, the unbroken skin between the cuts. He cried out for her, fighting the blinding pain that wracked his bones, fighting to go back. Shadows materialized into steeds with glowing eyes that stamped their hooves on planets and made the foundations of the universe quiver. Riders of such terrible beauty that they burned his eyes without a shred of light to see them by. Then he was tumbling, pulled by a tether that drew him back through the wormhole and slammed him into consciousness.

_“We’re coming.”_

“No.” His throat felt as parched as a dying man in the desert and he coughed, a trickle of blood running down his chin. “No.” Stronger, sent with force to Bruce. Not now. Natasha needs more time.

“Well, isn’t that surprising? You’re stronger than they thought.” Julio bent down, his face only inches away from Clint’s. The burn of Julio’s cuts was red hot, searing all the way down to the bone. The man had climbed onto the gurney and was astride Clint, rubbing his erection along Clint’s thigh as he enjoyed his handiwork. “I will have to send Constance in to take care of you. Since there won’t be much time left when she’s through, I shall tell you a secret now.” His hand slid down the bloody surface of Clint’s chest and cupped him, squeezing hard. “I don’t like women. Had to take one of those pills to get her with child. You, on the other hand …” He licked along the side of Clint’s face, tongue coming away red. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to get hard for me to have my fun.”

Clint closed his eyes, withdrew from his skin into the place in his head where he couldn’t be touched, where he’d hidden and struggled against Loki’s icy fingers. The drug made the retreat easier, and Clint fell into the hole, tried to cover himself up, but something had changed, his mind now open and unguarded against the flood of anger that filled the space. The red tide overflowed until it was bursting out of every slice in his skin. His vision doubled then tripled, Bruce and the Big Guy looking out of Clint’s eyes.  Ripping the restraints free, he flipped Julio off the table.  Sinew shifted, muscles enlarged, and green crawled up his skin, healing his wounds as it went and burning away the last of the drug. He caught Julio by the throat, dangling his feet above the floor; the man thrashed about, eyes bulging as he clawed at the hand that was choking him.

A needle jammed into his bicep, and Clint whirled, throwing Julio against the wall like a broken toy. Tentacles with more syringes, dose after dose injected into his system until he couldn’t stay upright and shrank back to normal size, the only reminders of his torture the darkening blood stains and the memories burrowing into him. Constance pushed his body down but his consciousness stayed above, hovering and watching as she strapped him in tightly, ignoring Julio completely.

The closed door tugged and then he was flying through it, along the hallway and up the stairs. Neither walls nor doors stopped him as he zoomed through rooms then out into the dusk of evening, past some outbuildings, along the road that led to the workers’ homes, behind a ramshackle shed tilted up against the outer wall and right into Natasha’s head. Blinking once, then twice, he could see what she did -- the small tracking device in her hand and the view of Julio’s bedroom windows from the small opening that served as a window. Her head jerked up, senses on alert, and Clint was shoved out as her mental walls slammed into place. He had to hold himself near her by sheer force of will, moving as close as possible and letting the images flow between them – front door, back door, hallway, stairs, nurse’s station, the room where Margarita was being kept. Only the slight widening of her eyes gave any hint that she received them before he was wrenched away into a headlong rush across the countryside.

“Something’s wrong,” Bruce was saying and Coulson agreed, frustrated at inactivity, wishing he was in the thick of it, wondering what was happening. Clint looked down, saw the computer screens – camera angles of the compound, a live feed from New York, diagrams and schematics – and realized he was in Coulson’s head.

“Working on it,” Coulson’s voice was calm but his mind was racing with options and questions. Images floated around Clint – their favorite pizza parlor in New York, Clint and Natasha in a street fight in Brussels, Clint looking at Bruce while they all sat in the big couch in the movie room – and Clint was hit with the force of Phil’s emotions, just how much he cared. “You got anything JARVIS? I need eyes and ears.”

“We’re locked out.”  Tony’s voice filtered through speaker.

Clint startled and jumped out of Phil, drawn inexorably to Bruce, sinking into him. Darkness, then Clint looked up at the ceiling of the brothel room in Singapore, Bruce stretched out beside him in the red lines of the neon light outside.

~~You told Tony?~~ Clint accused. Bruce rolled up on his side, propped his head on his hand and traced a line down Clint’s bare chest

~~Of everything, that’s what you ask first?”  Bruce countered, the lights of Vegas in the background as they floated in the warm water. ~~Yes. We needed him to get past the outer perimeter of security code. You didn’t’ really think Steve could access JARVIS without Tony knowing, did you?~~

No time to get angry, and what use would it serve? Now Clint understood; he should have brought everyone in from the beginning.  The force dragged on him; he didn’t have long before he had to leave Bruce. ~~She’s pregnant and they’re going to use the baby as a vessel for Mab. We’re scheduled to be hosts using some kind of mind altering drug mixed with latent talent.~~

~~Hulk smash and save our girl.~~ The Big Guy sat down next to Clint in the desert rock with a huff of frustration, smashing one fist into the other. ~~Not wait.~~

~~Hold on, Big Guy. Julio’s not in charge, remember? I need to find out who is. Soon as we do that, you can bring the whole god damn place down after we get her out.~~  Clint patted the big green hand.

~~Papa.~~ Becca turned her big blue eyes towards Clint, lip stuck out in a pout. Goldfish cracker crumbs hung at the corners of her mouth. ~~Talk to me Papa. I’m here ~~

~~Of course you are,~~ Clint said, scooping her from the stool in the kitchen and hefting her up to kiss her belly. ~~I just need to finish talking to Bruce then I’m coming for you.~~

~~Prisa papá, por favor. ~~ Tears streaked her cheeks as she struggled not to cry out with pain. ~~They’re coming. Very soon. ~~

“Whatever they’re doing to him is bad,” Bruce said, standing and looking over Phil’s shoulder. “Tell Natasha to move up the timetable or we’ll lose them both.”

And like that, Clint hurtled back to the compound and down the stairs, melting through the door into the room where she lay crying and breathing short little breathes through a contraction. She turned, saw him and sobbed, trying to lift her hands to reach for him. Merging was easy; she was his center of gravity and he knew, instantly, that she was his daughter. Her memories were a jumbled collection of snapshots –her mother’s warm hug, Sister Mary Francis’s library, a tree she used to climb, tears over a coffin, Julio’s hands holding her down – then he was sitting on bench in a garden, watching a four-year-old dig holes in the mud with a stick. Her Blue’s Clues t-shirt was stained with smudgy hand prints and the knees of her pink corduroys were caked with dirt. Long pigtails swung free, and she was humming as she worked.

~~She told me about you,~~ Her body might look young, but her voice was older, more mature, ~~that you didn’t know about me and wouldn’t until the time was right. She said to be strong, no matter what. We were going to be important.~~

~~I’m sorry,~~ was all he could manage to say, an unfamiliar lump in his throat blocking his words.

~~I just didn’t know it would hurt so much,~~ She said through her tears. He thought about holding out his arms, but he didn’t even know her, didn’t know if she’d want to be comforted, didn’t know if it would matter.

~~Listen to me. There’s a woman who’s going to come for you – red hair and she’ll say the word Carson. You can trust her; she’ll take you to a safe place.~~

~~The Widow.~~ Margarita nodded, eyes filled with wisdom born of pain. ~~And the Green Man and the Doctor. They will come, but not soon enough.~~

Creeping in around the edges was the pain; Clint was back in the room with Nurse Ratchet for a second, the distinct sound of bone cracking, then he was with her again. ~~ I have to go, but I’ll come back. ~~

~~No you won’t. I’ve seen it.~~ She shook her head. Her voice broke into a choked gasp; she gritted her teeth and clenched her hands. ~~Dios mio, I don’t want this. Any of it. Make it go away. ~~

He reached for her then, unable to stop himself, but he was gone, like a puppet controlled by some invisible force, reeled into yet another set of stairs, a series of rooms, these not on the blueprints, and into a circular chamber, deep underground. Talavera tiles in cool white and blues lined the floor and walls; at the center was a fountain, three tiers tall, spiral reaching up almost to the apex of the arch. Elaborate murals covered almost every surface and Clint couldn’t help but think of the Hulk’s favorite Disney movie as he looked at all the myths and legends represented.

“You are going to be perfect,” Constance hissed in his ear as her tentacles ripped circles of skin from his chest. He tried to blink but blood caked at the edge of his eyes and his hand was strapped down so he couldn’t wipe it away. Funny, he could feel her fingers digging into him despite the rest. “A little more tenderizing and you’ll be ready.”

Shadows danced along the tiled curves, some human shapes, some not. The music grew louder, and Clint wasn’t sure if the room was spinning or he was. They came from the walls, restless shapes that flowed like water running downhill into arms and legs and torsos. The largest coalesced, spindly shoots of darkness becoming points of antlers, holes opening and shifting into tawny owl eyes that blinked slowly and looked right through the area Clint was hovering above. None of them had physical bodies, and yet arms reached for him and held him in place.

~~Who the hell are you?~~ Going on the offensive first, Clint turned inside out, his private thoughts swirling in the air around him, his voice echoing inside. ~~Another one of Mab’s flunkies?~~

Dismounting from his smoky black destrider, half-man, half-something else, he smiled, a human face beneath those eyes. ~~Ah, yes, you met Morden. Not exactly a fine example of the courts, but then Mab always did play her pawns first.~~

A piercing pain in Clint’s side, jagged sawing at his flesh, and the industrial light of the examination room was blocked by Constance’s face. “Wake up, little Hawk. Come play with me.”

The icy cold of space made the pain recede; the thing/man/creature’s hand was under Clint’s chin, tilting up what would have been his head had he any flesh. ~~There now. I’ve bought us a few more minutes before Lyanna yanks you away.~~

~~One more time,~~ Clint ground out. Or he thought it. He wasn’t sure. ~~Who. Are. You.~~

~~Determined, aren’t you, human? That is why I chose you for my emissary. Vengeance is a difficult path to walk but you haven’t given up yet.~~ A breeze ruffled the leaves in the trees and Clint was in a forest clearing, circle of standing stones around him. ~~Your people called me Herne, one name among many, and I wish to deny Mab her return.~~

~~The Wild Hunt. Yeah, heard of that. Henry II right? Or was that Woden?~~ Clint’s mind was jumping again, through books and movies and stories he’d heard.

~~You know of me?~~ Herne asked, startled.

~~Why is everyone so damn surprised that I read? Hell, if Norse gods are real, why not all the rest? Might be useful to know a bit about them. Plus, Shakespeare wrote you into a play.~~ The side effects of the drug were lessening now, well, except for the mind-blowing expansion that let him talk to ex-gods in serial killer’s sub-basements. ~~All Hallow’s Eve, chasing after people, offering them the option to join you or die … yeah, I’m up-to-date so you can skip the about me section of the evening’s entertainment. ~~

~~Yes, you’ll do well.~~ He dipped the rack of antlers, a pseudo-nod. ~~I would have you as a vessel, Clinton Francis Barton. One hunter to another, not to take you over, but to share with you in order to stop Mab. She is a vicious bitch and would have this world bow before her once again. I will not allow that to happen.~~

~~Let me guess. You fucked her, right? And now there’s no love lost between the two of you?~~ Clint snorted, letting his mouth run out the clock while he absorbed the whole ‘vessel’ thing. ~~Not my first rodeo with you all powerful dicks. Besides, I’ve got enough people in here already.~~ If he had eyebrows, he would have wiggled them.

~~I will allow your insubordination due to the newness of your altered state, but speaking to me in such a manner is not wise in the future. Do not hastily dismiss my request; I can offer you much in return. Information, enhanced skills … I can heal the damage to your body that Lyanna is inflicting even now.~~ His answer gave Clint hope; Herne didn’t know about Clint’s connection to the Hulk or Bruce, or he’d have known Clint had already tapped the Hulk to help him heal once. That little nugget wasn’t bothering Clint at the moment; there’d be plenty of time for him to freak out after he crashed.

~~Can you get Margarita out of here?~~ Clint asked; he wouldn’t believe any answer Herne gave, but it was interesting to see what he would say.

~~Alas, that I cannot do until the babe is born; Mab already has a connection with the child, one which I, a member of the Seelie Court, cannot gainsay. But once the mother is separate again, then yes, I could enable you to walk out of here unopposed.~~ Interesting admission of limits on his power, Clint thought.

“Oh,” Clint gasped. A hand clamped down on his arm and dragged him up towards the ceiling; he struggled and got free.

~~Lyanna is Constance. And she’s working for Mab. I get it.~~ Clint said.

~~Indeed. We have little time. Make your decision.~~

~~And if I refuse?~~ Clint saw Herne’s eyes flash, a darkness creeping into them.

~~Then I will hunt you down and run you to ground. After all, you are not the only possibility. You do call yourselves the Avengers, correct? And there is one among you whose anger drives him as  much as mine does me.~~ Watching Herne cock his head and stare unblinkingly was disconcerting.

~~Bruce won’t have you. I can promise you that.~~ The pull was growing stronger, drugs wearing off.

~~Not your doctor. I was thinking … bigger.~~ Herne smiled, an eerie grin that was not comforting.

~~No. The Big Guy won’t do it.~~

~~Of course he will. I'll just offer to save you.~~

Oh, God. The Hulk taken over? Clint shut the connection off, not letting the surge of doubt he felt wash back to Bruce. The Hulk had a weak spot, and that was Clint himself.

~~Take some time to decide. We have until the babe comes.~~ Herne mounted his horse again, beginning to fade away. ~~Then I’ll come for you, my little Hawk.~~

“There you are.” Lyanna/Constance had blood on her cheek and in her hair. “I thought I’d lost you to the cosmos.”

He felt like Dorothy, stepping from black and white into Technicolor. From the floating state of the drug to the full awareness of every ache and pain, his senses were overwhelmed. She’d been more thorough, breaking a couple fingers, inflicting bruises along with the myriad cuts and wounds. His chest hurt; just expanding his lungs difficult.

“Don’t worry,” she crooned. “With the Knight inside of you, you won’t feel a thing.” She all but danced out of the room, leaving Clint secured, blood dripping onto the floor.

There was just enough of the drug left to close his eyes and send a message. He hoped one of them got it.

~~Be careful. They’re already here. Guard yourself and find some iron.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint's hallucinations:
> 
> Barnabas Collins, Dark Shadows (both the old TV show and the more recent, crappy movie)  
> A number of characters from Game of Thrones: Jon Snow, Arya Stark, and Jeffrey Baratheon  
> Apothis, Stargate SG1 (the villain of the movie and the first couple of seasons of the TV show)  
> Darryl Dixon, The Walking Dead  
> Alice, Alice in Wonderland  
> Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz  
> Lucifer, Supernatural  
> A number of Queen songs and Freddie Mercury, the lead singer
> 
> The Spanish translates to "Daddy, don't leave me here" and "Hurry, Daddy, please"
> 
> And to those who've read "It Takes Two" the answer is a big yes. ;D


	6. Shelob's Lair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's haunted and hunted as he slips in and out of consciousness. Things are always darkest before the dawn. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: snakes. Why did it have to be snakes? and involuntary drug use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of the acid trip chapters. Things have to get a bit darker, but, trust me, there's some really nice fluff coming in the next few chapters to make up for the angst here.

## THEN

The rain was cold and hard, just this edge of sleet, puddling in the cracks and dips of the uneven old brick. It pattered on the sides of the open dumpster, drowning the smell of Chinese food and rotting cabbage. This far back from the street, the neon lights of the corner bar barely glowed, dark shadows the norm. All too soon, the men chasing him would think to check this way, and they couldn’t miss him, back to the locked door, blood covering his hands from the wound in his leg.

She’d shot him, and he couldn’t even be that pissed that she’d done it. After all, from the moment they’d fallen in together a few months ago, she’d told him she couldn’t be trusted. Purely business, she’d said, just a money making venture. Despite the fact she’d given him three different names and refused to sleep when he was in the room, she was a damn good partner, and they’d finished three difficult jobs he’d never have managed alone.

His bank account was fatter, but his soul was wearing thin.  So many bad decisions, so much blood.  He always seemed to come back to this, wounded by those he’d thought were helping him. His father, the Swordsman, Trickshot – even Barney had finally abandoned him. With nothing left, he’d thought maybe the army was the answer, but he’d discovered a dislike for idiots telling him to do stupid shit, and his discharge, while just barely honorable, couldn’t come soon enough.  A sharpshooter with no skills other than never missing, he’d fallen back into the hired gun life far too easily.

And now he was bleeding in an alley, waiting for some truly scary men to find him and finish the job that Natalie had started. A part of him thought it wouldn’t be a big waste; no one would miss him, and he just kept fucking everything up. This damn job – a snatch and grab – was the perfect example; rather than an office with some files, they’d found a crazy scientist’s underground bunker and jackbooted thugs with serious training. What they did manage to steal had slipped into Natalie’s belt pouch and disappeared with her.

“It’s for your own good,” she’d said when he’d stared up at her in surprise. Maybe she was right; maybe it was time someone finally put an end to Clint’s unremarkable life.

Fancy dress shoes, the kind Clint saw business men wearing but had never owned in his life, came to a stop in front of him. They were black and glossed to a high shine, water beading on the surface. As he tilted his head, Clint saw a pair of perfectly tailored blue pinstripe pants, brown leather belt, crisp white dress shirt, a matching jacket, and a red tie with tiny little blue dots. Staring down at him was a man, maybe ten years old than he was, face calm and composed beneath his brown, slightly balding hair. And he was wearing sunglasses at night.

“Clint Barton?” the man asked. “I’m Philip Coulson from the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

“That’s a mouthful.” Whoever this guy was, he certainly wasn’t one of the men from the bunker. They’d worn TAC suits, not Saville Row suits.

“She went for a through and through, I see. Not going to kill you, but painful as hell. I can help with that.” Coulson was completely unsurprised to be having a conversation with a sniper in a dark alley.

“What’ll it cost me?” Clint knew how the world worked. He didn’t believe in free lunches.

“Actually, we’re offering to pay you.” Coulson squatted down so they were eye level and took off his glasses. Behind the dark lens, his eyes were filled with a sense of humor. “How would you like to work for the good guys?”

“There’s no such thing,” Clint snorted, then grunted as the movement tightened the wrong muscles.

“You’re right. But we’re government sanctioned, we have damn good health insurance, and we let our assets use any weapon they want.” He waited patiently while Clint thought about it.

“I don’t know if I can trust a word out of your mouth.” And that was the rub, wasn’t it?

“True. I can leave you here to take your chances; those H.Y.D.R.A. agents aren’t that far away.”

Damn it, damn it, damn it. What was Clint supposed to do?

“So, how good are we talking about? Do I get to choose my doctor and, more importantly, what’s the policy on pre-existing conditions?”

## NOW

Branches smacked him as he stumbled through the jungle, but he didn’t feel any of them. Sweat rolled down from his soaking wet hair, and he wiped the water from his eyes, fever spiking. His broken arm hung limply along his side, the pain distant but steady. Two puncture wounds burned on his ankle, red and swollen.  What the hell a Bushmaster was doing this far north, Clint didn’t know, just that the snake hadn’t taken kindly to him blundering into its afternoon nap.  He couldn’t make it much further; between the drugs, the pain, and the venom, the trees were bending down to meet him, and he sank to the ground to keep from floating away.

## EARLIER NOW

“Why don’t you heal yourself again?” Julio asked, curious. “That’s not in your file, you know. A very handy trait to have.”

Clint had thrown the psycho hard enough to kill him and yet here he was, standing next to the gurney, positively happy about the wounds Constance had inflicted during her last little session.  By now, the psychotropic drugs had worn off and Clint was feeling each and every one of the cuts, bruises and breaks she’d enjoyed giving him. When he didn’t answer Julio’s question, the young man wrapped his hand around the broken bone and twisted until he wrung a cry from Clint.

“Don’t be like that. If you haven’t figured it out already, I do what I want, when I want. Soon, that bitch’ll give birth and then the fun will really start.” Julio’s dark eyes sparkled, and Clint felt his stomach roll, nothing but bile left to come up. Rough fingers stroked along open wounds, perfectly manicured fingernails turning red. “Tell me, Ronin, how do you go from being a stone cold killer to having a children’s toy in your likeness?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” The struggle for Clint wasn’t dealing with the damage tentacle lady had done, but keeping the connection shut down so neither Bruce nor the Big Guy knew what was going on. Herne’s words echoed in Clint’s head, and he was determined to keep him away from the people Clint loved.

“Please. You are the only one I can truly talk to; all this subterfuge and pretending is just so tiring.” Julio dragged a round doctor’s stool over and sat down, spinning lazily from side to side. “I’ve got a feedback loop going on the monitors, so Constance cannot see us nor hear us. She thinks I am lying dead in a utility room, thus we are free until the time comes for your next dose. Ask me something, anything!”

Seriously? This guy was going to spill his guts to Clint. Well, what the hell? “Okay, why aren’t you an empty meat sack? You hit that wall hard.”

“Oooh, good one to start with.” He clapped and spun 180 degrees. “It’s a secret. Mama hid her true nature well; father has no idea she chose him because of his mutant potential. Genetics were good to me, if you get my meaning.”

With a flash of insight, Clint put the pieces together -- the way he described his mother, the fact Julio wasn’t a viable vessel for one of Mab’s goons, and his fucked up psyche. After all, Clint knew there were non-humans around; hell, Thor was technically an alien and Clint had fought weird ones who looked like strings of spaghetti, so why not one living in Columbia, having babies with a mutant sociopath drug lord? It was a bad sci-fi movie in the making.

“My turn!” Julio stopped himself with his foot and grinned down at Clint. “How did you heal yourself?”

Clint would have shrugged but the movement made his arm throb so he settled for raising his eyebrows. “No clue. First time that’s ever happened. Maybe the drugs? You did say they had side effects.”

“More like brains melting and lots of drooling. And shaking. I do love it when they shake and bleed at the same time. Still, with the nannites and everything, who knows, right? That’s what I love about this stupid plan they have; they never take into account all the variables. Your turn again.”

So many thoughts went through Clint’s mind, but he was sure of one thing: Julio had his own agenda. “Since you have no intention of giving me up, which one are you going to let Mab have? Margarita or the baby?”

Julio tossed his brown hair out of his eyes as he laughed. “I don’t give a shit about the baby. Unfortunately, you are going to escape, killing the multi-talented Constance on your way out, forcing me to hunt you down like the dog you are, and I will feast on your blood when I end you. Then, the girl will be my next canvas.”

“Assuming I cooperate. I’m not going to give you a run for your money in the shape I’m in.”

“Oh, the drugs will take care of that. You won’t feel a thing. And I’m not really a good sport … I have no problem with you being less than your best. I just can’t wait to tell my father you are dead.”

There it was, the last piece of the puzzle. Daddy didn’t like Julio, had made more of his older brother Rogero; from what Clint knew of the head of the Ochoa family, the man was likely to be abusive, questioning the little boy’s masculinity at every turn, especially if he was different, odd.

“Ah, I see.” Clint managed a nod and then clammed up. Julio came to an abrupt stop and glared at him.

“You see what with those hawk eyes? You think you know me?” Turning on a dime, Julio went from happiness to chilly anger. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know Daddy liked Rogero better than you. I mean, after all, your brother didn’t need pills to get it up for a woman.  Can’t imagine your father’s very open-minded about your cock voting for boys.” The color flushed into Julio’s face and Clint knew he’d hit a nerve.

“Rogero was little more than a thug with meaty fists. He’d rather beat those girls to death and dump their bodies in the river than see the beauty in their pale skin. The man I hired to beat the others, the ones that lured you here? He was a better man than my brother, and he came cheap.”

Definitely a weak spot; Clint needled him some more. “So you had to have a stunt rapist? Wow, that’s really, um … yeah.”

Julio jumped up; the stool rolled across the small space and slammed into the counter, making a loud noise. “I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t help you at all. You tell your associates, whoever you have in the compound and those listening in, even try to warn them, and I’ll take that baby right now, the old fashioned way – with the point of my knife.”

“In no scenario will you come out of this alive, you know that right? ‘Cause if I don’t kill you, Mab will take care of it. And if somehow you manage to survive us, you think your drug connections are going to let you bring the police down on them with dead bodies piling up?”

As fast as lightning, he changed again, shoulders slumping, his face going slack. “Of course I know that. I’m crazy not an idiot; I have a failsafe.  But I’m going out on my own terms.”

“I can understand that.” And he did. Clint had already worked through the various outcomes of the situation and, if he was honest, he had only about a thirty percent chance of surviving and only a fifteen percent chance of still being Clint when the fat lady sang.  Actually, those odds weren’t all that bad, considering he’d survived Loki and helped turn back a conquest attempt by aliens.  

Footsteps sounded outside the door. “She’s coming,” Julio whispered in his ear.

Constance came in, tentacles tucked tight around her body. “And what was that? Are you still fighting it? Then I guess you’re ready for the next dose.”

“We could just skip it and say we didn’t …” Clint winced as the needle slipped under his skin, and he felt the slow burn as the drug poured into his vein. She gave him more than before, and he could swear he could trace its progress up his arm and neck and behind his eyes.

“You will make an excellent Winter Knight. She does so appreciate black humor.” She patted Clint’s chest; it should hurt, the way she stroked the cuts, but all that was receding as he lifted off the table without moving. The room had no walls, just tentacles that waved at him and pushed him higher.  “Just a little more and then …”

Her scream was high pitched; it cut through Clint like a wire snapping taut. Flailing, she fell forward onto Clint. From above, he could see her spread out across his body, red stain spreading over the white jacket, the hilt of an old iron knife protruding from her back. Julio pulled her off, dumping her on the floor of the cavern by the fountain … no, wait, Julio was unbuckling the restraints, easing Clint’s broken arm out of the cuff.  Freed completely, Clint rose, his legs not his own but tied to puppet strings that he used to move them one at a time.

“I’ll give you a head start.” No longer human, Julio’s face was dark green, his eyes silver, long wrinkles from chin to forehead and his mouth a macabre slash across his face.

“Dude, you’re fugly.” To speak, Clint had to think the words so they’d pour out of his hand and into his mouth.

“Tick, Tick,” the alien grinned, and Clint stumbled out the door and dropped straight through the concrete.

“Clint, thank God,” Bruce grabbed him as he fell, keeping him from collapsing.

“No!” He pushed back and ran, leaving Bruce staring after him looking bewildered and hurt.  The stairs went up and he hugged his arm close to his chest as he slid his opposite shoulder up the wall, leaving a long red smudge in his wake.  Julio sipped his bright blue whiskey as he connected the final wires to the block of C4 on the wall of the living room, tugging them tight as they led to more and more squares of explosive all over the compound. Silver eyes laughed at Clint as he understood Julio’s failsafe plan.

“Clint.” Natasha caught him as he whipped by her, snatching him out of the air and back into the laundry room. 

“No time. Get her out now. The house is wired to blow and there’s another interested party, pissed ex of Mab’s who wants to ride me to the party and …” His molecules began to separate, slipping through Natasha’s fingers.

“We get out together.” Her eyes narrowed in concern. 

“Promise me. Get her and the baby out.” Almost completely insubstantial, he turned the corner and tumbled into the circular room to find Herne waiting for him.

“Time to choose, Hawk. Fly with me or I clip your wings.”

“Save my daughter first, then you can own my ass.” Bargaining with a fairy? Clint seemed to remember a warning about that, but he had no choice. “Although I do have to tell you, I like to top.”

“Once a deal is struck, it cannot be unmade. The child belongs to Mab.” Herne’s horse pawed at the ground, anxious to be off; the jungle beckoned, an easy ride from the compound wall.

“Your kind makes deals with terrified children?” Anger pulsed through Clint, and he felt the Big Guy banging at the wall he’d erected between them. 

“The father agreed. Parents have long been given the privilege to offer their offspring as vessels.”

“Changelings.” The stories of children stolen away in the night, a fairy child left behind. “But I’m her father and the baby’s grandfather; don’t I get a vote in this?”

Herne laughed, a sound somewhere between the hoot of an owl and bark of a wolf. “This is not a democracy. Humans, always so inflated in your sense of importance.”

“Hurry please, it’s time,” Julio called over the loudspeaker; Clint slowed his breathing until eternities stretched between each one and palmed the bloody knife he’d stolen from Constance’s corpse. 

“You’re the ones who keep telling me I’m special. So I guess you’ll just have to catch me to get my answer.”

Stepping up to the edge of the stone wall, passing through the barbed wire and ghosting between video feeds, Clint jumped off and flew into the tree line, gliding through the leaves that smacked his skin. A horn blew, a siren blared, dogs barked, and the hunt was on.

## NOW

His feet were cold and his arm was missing, gone numb or maybe it was his brain that had lost contact with the mangled muscle and broken bone. The water, once so welcome, now soaked into his ripped pants, dragging his leg down into the mud of the stream.  Purpling, swollen and turning white in places, the snake bite was ugly and raw, the venom creeping through his system; Clint could feel the way his heart stuttered in time to the phantom sound of hooves. Sweat ran down his neck, the salt stinging as it dripped into open cuts.

Time meant nothing; one second he was sitting and then he was running then crawling then sinking into the water then dry as a bone. Lying against a tree trunk in the jungle, strapped to the gurney, down in the circular room – Clint no longer knew what was real and what was a figment of the venom and the drugs, at war with each other in his body. Soon, they would find him, Julio or Herne or he’d die alone here, his heart giving up the battle to keep beating. Heaven help him if it was Herne; he wasn’t sure he could say no if the offer was still on the table. At best, Clint could only hope Natasha got Margarita to safety.

“Cupid hurt.”

Clint blinked and tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes with his broken arm. Pain flashed and big green arms cradled him close until it passed.

“Get the girl.” Clint kept repeating that request, over and over. “Save her.”

“The Other Guy’s on his way,” Bruce said, and Clint rested his head on Bruce’s chest as long fingers wiped his brow. “Phil’s got eyes on Natasha. You bought us enough time.”

“Bomb.” He could see the wires – red, blue, green -- and Julio’s sweaty hand juggling the trigger.

“We’re on it. JARVIS tripped the evacuation alarm, and Tony thinks he can block the signal.” Lips brushed across Clint’s forehead as Bruce leaned down. “I love you so you better hold on. It’s my turn to save you.”

“Kept you out to not let him get you.” The sun was bright, shining down on their towel. Waves tickled his toes, but sand clung to his body like flies, irritating and itching. “Protect the Hulk.”

“We know.” Bruce kissed him, slow and sweet, the way he did in the morning after he made love to a still half-asleep Clint. “He’s not happy about it.”

Warm, Clint dozed off and woke to the feel of tiny legs on his skin, a multitude crawling over him. Golden nannites swarmed over his body; he blinked and they were gone.

“Sitrep, agent.”

Phil looked like he always did – calm and collected in his dress shirt. But there were signs all wasn’t well. An extra button undone, tie loosened, sweat on his forehead.

“Dying, Sir.” Clint’s odds were dropping with each minute the venom went unchecked. “Drugged to the gills, met the pointy bits of an ornery snake, and got a freakin’ Celtic god on my tail. Julio has gone Nero on us and has acid for blood. I’m about to be a grandfather to the Queen of Fairies. Plan’s pretty much FUBAR.”

“Sounds like a normal day with the Avengers, then,” Phil said with his trademark deadpan voice; just trying to laugh made everything hurt.

“Please, Phil, don’t let him say yes,” Clint asked. “Not even for me.”

“He won’t.” Phil crouched down next to him. “The Hulk’s smarter than that. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’ll want to do the saving himself. He’s said it’s his turn.”

Clint lost focus again and the world went fuzzy; when he looked up, night had fallen and the dogs were closer, baying to their master. Or maybe it had always been night. Clint didn’t know.

“Last chance, Hawk.” Herne sat on the risers, waiting; the inside of the tent was hot and humid. Clint was sweating from the exertion, his arm aching from the last show of the evening.  “Make your decision.”

“Let me think … how about go to hell and take the bitch with you.” He sat on the platform, swinging his feet as he eyed the net below, checking to see if ropes were tied securely in case he had to jump. “I can manage on my own.”

“You are in no shape to aid anyone. I could give you strength, heal you, and yet you say no?”

The smell of the sawdust and popcorn triggered Clint’s memories and he was falling, looking up at Herne standing above him. The ground rushed up, and he closed his eyes but the impact never came. “I bite my thumb at you, sir,” he quoted, the absurdity of the whole situation catching up with him. “No means no. Kill me then go see how long it takes the Hulk to rip you to shreds.”

“You place such trust in the monster.” Herne turned for the exit, holding the tent flap back with his hand. “That is fascinating.”

“That was always your problem; you’d talk your prey to death.” The newcomer looked exactly like Jaime Lannister … but then Herne suddenly was Peter Dinklage in his Tyrion costume and Clint was stretched across a bed somewhere in King’s Landing.  With his golden hair that gleamed in the light of the moon an a lean and muscular body, the newcomer smiled at Clint as he walked over and sat on the mattress’s edge, making it dip towards him.

“The Winter Knight, I presume.” Well, Clint thought, it was nice to be argued over. Seems everyone wanted a piece of him. “Same answer to you, buddy. No. Go fuck your sister.”

“Unlike my summer counterpart over there, I don’t need your permission. Those little bugs inside you? Where do you think the technology came from?” Gods, but Nikolaj Coster-Waldau was sexy. Must be why Clint had conjured up that image. “We already own you and your friends. All I have to do is touch you.”

The Knight’s hand was cool, like a healing compress on Clint’s burning skin, and the soothing feeling spread as the Knight began to sink inside. Fighting it, Clint tried to stop him, pushing back as the cold settled into his bones; blue filtered into Clint’s vision, and he shivered as repressed memories of Loki’s control exploded.

“No!” The force of his shout surprised them all, but not as much as the blast that knocked the Winter Knight right out of Clint’s body.

“Who has claimed you before?” Jaime/Winter Knight demanded. “His mark shall not stand.”

Clint slashed with the iron knife, catching the outstretched hand at the wrist; the old metal met resistance as it cut through the flesh and bone, leaving a bloody stump that trailed glowing energy.

“Look at what you’ve done!” he yelled; tendrils of oozing black crept up his arm, poisoning him just like the snake venom in Clint. “You should not be able to hurt me. Not like this.”

“That was always your problem, brother. You underestimate your target. This world is not as backwards as you believe. Nor is it unprotected,” Tyrion/Herne said. He made no move to help the Knight, just sat back in a chair and watched as the black swamped the other’s body. “Best run on back to your Queen; she might be able to save you.”

“I will not forget this,” Jaime/Winter Knight growled. “When I come for you, you will know pain.”

“Underestimate, indeed.” Tyrion/Herne cocked a questioning eyebrow at Clint when they were alone. “Dying and in agony, you still fight. I just might have to change my mind about you, Clint Barton. ‘Til another time; I look forward to the next battle.” He too shimmered and then disappeared.

Time slowed, the pain became a dull background roar that Clint could push aside enough to worry about where Julio was, if Margarita was safe, if Natasha had gotten to her.  He always seemed to end up this way, didn’t he? Alone. Hurt. Felled by his own stupid impulses. When would he learn he could save others, but never himself?

“Well, once again, playing the hero has gotten you into a jam.”

“Barney?” Clint knew for sure he was hallucinating now; the poison was advancing. Soon the black hovering at the edge of his vision would creep in and he wouldn’t wake up. “You’re dead so you can’t boss me around anymore.”

“Never could tell you what to do, you stubborn little cuss.” He didn’t look a day older than the last time Clint had seen him alive. Bending over, he ruffled Clint’s hair and looked down at him with familiar blue-grey eyes.  “Still, I’m proud of you. The whole superhero gig. Bet you’re rolling in dough and as much pussy as you can … right, cock, sorry, forgot that’s your thing now.”

So like Barney, a compliment wrapped in his own unique brand of insult. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

“Fuck, Clint. I didn’t give you much choice. I didn’t tell you, hell, I never told you anything, so how were you to know? Just like this situation. You were screwed already no matter what course you choose to take.” Barney dropped down on the ground next to Clint and brushed off a beetle that was crawling along Clint’s arm. “You look like shit. Broke your bow arm. Nasty one too. Some of those wounds are infected. And your leg? Damn, boy. That’s gotta hurt.”

“Thanks for the inventory.” And wasn’t this just like old times, Barney hiding his concern behind a smart mouth, Clint grumbling his displeasure. “You some figment of my imagination or can you tell me what’s happening back at the house? Be useful for once?”

“You wound me, bro!” Barney covered his heart with his hand and feigned being hurt. “Not a figment, more of a … well … let’s go with shadow. All sorts of doors open in that stupid head of yours. Don’t know shit about anything else, but I do know that one of us needs to have a happy ending. So hold onto your ass for a bit, will ya’?”

“God damn it, just once I’d like to not end up shot or hurt or dying like this,” Clint complained. There was a roaring in his ears, his own blood rushing through his veins. He lost his arms and legs, was nothing now but a voice bouncing in his head.

“For once,” Barney said, scooting closer, “I’ll be the one who stays. At least until your ride gets here.”

The world faded to black, and he slipped into a series of increasingly bizarre dreams, unable to tell what was real and what wasn’t anymore.

_“It’s for you own good.” Natasha, shooting him in a rainy alleyway, whispering in his ear._

Lightning crackled across the sky, the boom of thunder close enough to rouse him.

_“Who’s the best marksman now?” His father and Duquesne and Buck on the tightrope platform, each of them pushing him backwards into freefall, no net beneath him, just a grappling arrow and a shattered window to crash through._

A Brilliant red fireball colored the horizon with the shock wave seconds behind.

_“She will save the world.” Angela, large with their child, her hair fanned out across the pillow, reaching out for him. “Take care of them for me.”_

An Earth shaking roar, the rat-a-tat of gunfire, and distant screams.

_“Pain and pleasure, Little Hawk.” Loki’s hand pressing him down, his fingers clawing into Clint’s shoulder. “You were mine first and I don’t play well with others.”_

Voices, just on the edge of his hearing, circling, retreating, coming closer. Metal against metal, the scuff of footfalls, and blue light filtering under his eyelids.

_“Are you awake, Papa?” She jumped on the bed until Clint had to crack his eyes open. “It’s almost time!”_

_“What did I tell you, Becca?” Bruce snatched her up and gave her his sternest look, which wasn’t much of one since she’d wrapped his heart around her little finger from the second she was born. “Papa’s sick and needs to rest.”_

_“But Daddy, he’s going to miss it and he promised.” Little lip stuck out in a pout and she resorted to her puppy dog eyes, the one neither of them could resist._

Weightless but wrapped tightly, cool wind ruffling his hair as the miles passed beneath him. Hard hands, jostling, sudden warmth and weight on his chest.

_A voice, humming then singing about mockingbirds and golden rings, the words quiet among the sounds of the jungle. “Shhhhhh,” his mother said. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I promise.”_

Then Clint knew nothing at all.

 

 

 


	7. The Palantir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She was already gone,” Bruce sounded as if he’d made this argument already. “Natasha tried to get back to her body but … the fire burned too hot. There’s nothing left but ashes.”
> 
> Too hot. Clint closed his eyes and let the grief that was building ebb away. No body to identify. Nat would never have left his daughter behind. Never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: there's some mentions of past abuse of underage girls.

THEN – Jakarta, Indonesia

Fuck SHIELD, fuck the rain, fuck his whole misbegotten life. This clusterfuck was going downhill fast. Damn bad intel and stupid asshole handlers who’d never been out of their own little bubbles and didn’t know shit about the things people were willing to do get out of soul-grinding poverty. Feet on the ground beat satellite images any day, but Morrison thought damn Google street view was enough to plan a getaway route. Where did they get these chuckleheads anyway? Straight from West Point or the VMI or some military school were proper soldiers went, the kind of places that wouldn’t let Clint darken their doors.

Just a few days surveillance, they said. Sitting in the tropics, watching a building to see who showed up, they said. Low level flunkies and a few minor paper pushers, they said. What Clint had seen through his scope within the first fifteen minutes had been fodder for future nightmares: bone-thin girls in dirty muslin shifts, terrified wide eyes staring at fixed points on the wall while creatures that didn’t deserve the title of men used them. Three of them, all in their early teens.

When he’d radioed in and told Morrison, she’d warned him to stick to the mission; they weren’t there to save some kids, she’d said curtly, and she’d have none of Clint’s heroics or she’d write his ass up and get him busted back down to level two. So he settled back to watch, seething, until he saw a flash of red hair and a familiar figure.

Natasha, looking exactly like she did last time he saw her, red curls and a gun in her hand. She dropped into a room from the ceiling, accessing the computer in seconds. From his perch, Clint could see the men in the next room, drinking cheap liquor and laughing to each other as the ringleader ‘amused’ himself with a fifteen-year-old with the longest black hair and terrified blue eyes. This couldn’t end well; there was no way in hell Natasha was going to leave those girls to their fate. They’d worked together long enough for him to know what pushed the Russian’s buttons.

One thing Clint had come to realize in the last few years as he worked at becoming more than a thug himself, taking advantage of everything SHIELD could offer – training, an education, a roof over his head, and more food than he could eat – was that Natasha had done him a favor with that bullet. He might not like being told what to do and, yeah, there were some real pieces of work in the SHIELD organization, but limping out of that alley with Phil that day was the best decision Clint had made in maybe his whole life. And he wouldn’t have done it without Nat’s push, even if he did still have the scar.

Wiping the stray raindrops that had snuck in under his hood, Clint activated his earpiece. “Got a situation here, Morrison. There’s a friendly on site; we should help her out.”

“What?” Morrison’s voice was tense and he could hear her muttered cursing as she turned to Jamison, the techie for the mission, demanding he get her a thermal sweep of the building. Kid had offered earlier to set it up; Morrison had nixed it as unnecessary. Now she was blaming him.  “Who the hell is that? Did you know about this, Barton?”

“Negative. Friendly is a known freelancer.” He didn’t bother telling her Natasha would kill every one of their marks; that, he thought, should be a given.

In the building, Natasha was reaching for the doorknob. Clint could do nothing but watch as two of the men left the room and headed out for a building sweep; in seconds, Nat would walk right into their path.

“Your mission has not changed, Barton. Watch the mark. Nothing else,” Morrison ordered in her clipped voice.

“Shit, Morrison. She’s about to get captured.” To hell with protocol, Clint thought. The woman was an ass.

“Do not intervene. We can’t afford to give away our position.”

“Damn it, there are innocent girls in there,” Clint asked, his finger loose on the trigger.

“We will, later, when we can interrogate them and find out more information,” Morrison agreed.

“Is that official orders, Morrison, or your own determination? ‘Cause last time I looked SHIELD had regs about the treatment of children.” Clint’s anger was boiling up and he knew the feeling. He was about to do something stupid. Again.

Clint didn’t listen to Morrison’s reply because Natasha slammed the door into the men’s faces, taking them out in seconds. The sounds alerted the others who poured out of the other room; rather than retreating, Natasha met them head on, that stubborn look on her face Clint had seen before. She took three more down quickly and would have easily subdued the rest, but the boss shoved the fifteen-year-old in front of him, his gun trained on her head. Clint didn’t need to hear the conversation to know what was happening; life for a life, the age-old escape plan. Save the girl by giving yourself up. But Natasha was fast and smart and she … was laying her gun down and dropping to her knees in the corridor, hands linking behind her head, turning ever so slightly and glancing out the window right at Clint.

Shit. She knew he was here, was counting on it. It was a good as putting a gun to her own thigh and pulling the trigger; she was ready to come in from the cold. With Morrison’s voice screeching in his ear, he focused in on the leader’s trigger finger. When he began to turn the gun towards Natasha, Clint put a bullet between the man’s eyes then fired off three more in quick succession, one per guard that Natasha didn’t take out on her own. Yanking out his earpiece and stuffing it in his pocket, he jumped for the access ladder, sliding down with his feet on either side and dropping into a run, boots splashing through the muddy puddles as he rounded the side of the building. Natasha came out of back door, girls in tow; their bare feet skidded on the loose gravel and their little limbs were shaking, but they ran as fast as they could.

“T-minus 20 seconds,” was all Natasha had to say. Clint scooped up the smallest girl and they sprinted down the alleyway before taking shelter behind a construction dumpster, tucking all of them in the slot between brick wall and metal side. Clint ducked down, breathing hard, holding tight to his bow as the explosion triggered, rocking the heavy metal container and raining a debris cloud across several blocks.

“You couldn’t just call?” He asked Natasha. Her green eyes flashed with humor. “A get well card would have been nice.”

“You’re doing fine.” She brushed the dust off her black leather jacket. “How long?”

He knew what she was asking. “10 minutes max. I can’t keep them. They know things.”

“Da. I have a place for them. The fire burns hot; there will be no way to identify bodies,” she said then she spoke to the girls in Betawi.

“Tasha.”

She paused.

“Phil Coulson. 16464678924.”

She nodded and then they were gone.

**_NOW_ **

No pain, just a floating sensation that was quite pleasant and soothing. A soft ambient light, warmth blanketed across his body, easy breaths – he glided awake, so leisurely that he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming or not. His head felt wide open … like that beach villa they’d stayed in on Tony’s private island, no windows or doors just spaces with white sheers that fluttered in the ocean breeze. Thoughts and feelings drifted, nothing locked away. Aware of others, he brushed against the Big Guy who was sleepy and sated, resting from his exertion. The Hulk shifted into his caress before coasting away.  A completely new voice, close by, hungry, confused, overwhelmed, but safe and warm. Another, pain, grief, self-loathing; she moved further away, retreating.  And Bruce, so vibrant and alive, such a wellspring of love and wonder that made Clint want to reach out and touch it.

Clint turned his head and saw him under the one lamp, light spilling over his brown curls, casting shadows on his face as he rocked gently back and forth in the chair. Eyes soft, he stared at the small bundle of cloth held in the crook of one arm, a swaddle of blue and white. Red splotchy face, so tiny and wrinkled, peeked from the folds as a mouth latched onto the nipple of the small bottle Bruce held in his other hand. As if his ears only now started working, Clint realized Bruce was singing, low and quiet.

“And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring …”

If asked, Clint would say he didn’t believe in any kind of afterlife, but he’d be lying. He wanted Hell to be real so he could rest easier with the knowledge all those he’d hunted down in his life were condemned to eternal torment. And if hell was there, then he knew he was destined to head that direction for being the one to pull back the string. He’d killed people, hurt so many more that there was no balancing his ledger, despite what Natasha always said. But this, this was the opposite of Hell. By all rights, Clint should be dead and roasting on a spit over a brimstone cook stove, not seeing the raw adoration on Bruce’s face as he fed Clint’s granddaughter.

“Hey there,” Bruce whispered. “Greedy thing. You finished it all.” He tossed a white towel over his shoulder and shifted her up to pat her back. “Nice clean diaper and full tummy. You should sleep for a while.”

Need, it turns out, can be painful; sharp and sudden, emotion twisted in Clint’s chest. He never wanted anything as much as he did the scene before him. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he squeezed them shut before he cried and had to blame the medication for the feeling swamping him.

“Heaven,” Clint tried to say. It came out mangled and far too soft, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Must be dead ‘cause this is heaven.”

Bruce looked up and smiled. “That would be the drugs talking. They’re giving you the good stuff to counter the anti-venom. It’s pretty nasty and takes time to work out of the system.” He stood and stepped up to the side of the bed.

“Nope. You’re here. Heaven.” Clint couldn’t start to sit up because he had absolutely no motor control at all. “Wanna see.”

Cradling her neck with one hand and her body with the other, Bruce tucked her back in the crook of her arm. “She’s gorgeous. Five pounds and eight ounces, excellent for being early. We’ve got her in an incubator just to be on the safe side, but I doubt she’ll need it much longer.”

“Ten fingers ‘n toes?” Clint watched in wonder as she yawned, tiny mouth opening wide, little pink tongue lolling out.

“She’s perfect,” Bruce assured him, jiggling the baby slightly as she wiggled her nose and started to drift off.

“Margarita?”

A shadow crossed Bruce’s face and Clint felt the Big Guy stir in his sleep. His tension made the baby react and give a tiny squawk. He shushed her and bounced more, a slow swing as he stepped back and forth.

“Let me put her down.”

He tucked her into a small plastic bassinette, pulling her knit hat more securely onto her head. Patting her on the back for another minute, he finally turned back to Clint when she was settled.

“I’m sorry, Clint. The labor was difficult and Margarita was already so weak.” Bruce brushed Clint’s hair back from his forehead and took his hand, but Clint could barely feel it. “Natasha did what she could; she’s the only reason the baby survived.”

“Tasha?” Confused, Clint felt like he was missing something important. “Natasha got them out.”

“There wasn’t time. Margarita was already at ten centimeters when Natasha got to her. Julio had upped the Pitocin beyond safe limits; her contractions were steady and the baby was crowning,” Bruce explained. “Natasha delivered the baby; she could only get one of them out before the explosion.”

“Explosion.” Clint’s mouth might be slow, but his brain was a hundred steps ahead. “Nat left my daughter in the house before it blew up.”

“She was already gone,” Bruce sounded as if he’d made this argument already. “Natasha tried to get back to her body but … the fire burned too hot. There’s nothing left but ashes.”

Too hot. Clint closed his eyes and let the grief that was building ebb away. No body to identify. Nat would never have left his daughter behind. Never. 

“Julio?” he asked.  A machine beeped and Clint felt a rush of cool up his arm as medicine was injected through the I.V. He tracked as it rose to body temperature and knew he’d be falling asleep soon.

“The Other Guy caught him trying to escape.” That was all Bruce had to say and Clint didn’t feel even a pang of remorse.

“Thor ‘ere?” Clint could feel his eyes already growing heavy from exhaustion and the drugs. “Need him. Protect her. Loki’s spell, something, kept them out.”

“Loki? Kept who?” Bruce leaned down as Clint’s voice faded.

“Winter Knight.” Clint’s eyes slid closed. “Mab wants … keep her safe …” He sank into a medicated sleep.

* * *

 

The room was brighter next time he awoke; sunlight filtered through the window blinds. Natasha sat in the rocker watching the baby sleep in her bassinet, a leg folded up underneath her and her hand on the hilt of her pistol. She didn’t take her eyes of the little girl as she spoke.

“She’s beautiful. Must come from her mother.”

God, he loved that woman, his oldest true friend. Making jokes in the midst of all this was exactly what he needed. No need to talk or hash over feelings. He trusted her and that was enough.

“Yeah, but the baldness is a masculine trait.” He could move a little more, a welcome change even if his arm was throbbing and stitches itching. Heavy with bandages, his leg felt like a dead weight, but he could wiggle his toes, so that was good. “Guess I’m not dead. So much for my big sacrifice. Can’t even do that right.”

“Idiot.” She shook her red curls. “I’d shoot you again if it would make any difference.”

They lapsed into silence; she rose with the elegance of dancer and offered him a cup with a straw to sip from. The water was cold and felt good going down his dry throat.

“They’re going to come for her.” That’s what he feared; Mab in that tiny body, growing in power. “Too much invested already. I need to talk to Thor; something Loki did protected me.”

“They have to get through us first.” She leaned on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms.  “Thor’s gone to Asgard to see if his mother can help, and I forced Bruce to go get some sleep finally.”

“Where are we?” He flexed his left hand and tried to get more comfortable, an impossible task with the I.V. needle still in.

“Sister Francis’ clinic; Tony flew you here after we found you.” She held the cup out for him to take another drink. “Ochoa hasn’t said a peep and the cartel is strangely silent. I don’t think anyone liked Julio very much and even fewer knew exactly what he was up to in the basement.” They spoke in their own private language, message sent and received very different than the one uttered out loud. Ochoa didn’t care. No one was going to come looking for Margarita. She was as safe as Natasha could make her. Don’t ask stupid questions or rock the boat.

“What’s the media reporting?” That was why he didn’t want everyone to know; this wasn’t the sort of thing Avengers should be involved in. Fury was going to be supremely pissed.

“That the Bogota Killer has been apprehended, thanks to the work of a local detective, and the killer died in the ensuing firefight. Much easier to manipulate the story when people are afraid of the cartel’s reprisal. Plus, they’re glad to be free of Julio; he terrorized them.”

“A family trait, it seems.” He closed his eyes for a second and Angela’s face flashed before him, young and beautiful, eyes filled with tears for her sister.

“There he is! About time you woke up. I want to have a word with you.” Tony entered the room with his usual swagger, sunglasses tucked in the collar of his black t-shirt. “I’m crushed … crushed! … that you didn’t want to share with me. After all, I have certainly had my own youthful indiscretions.”

“Tony. Mouth. Foot. Not the time,” Steve admonished, coming in right behind him. “Clint, how are you?” He crossed over to the bed and put a hand on Clint’s arm.

“You told Tony.” Clint changed the subject before Steve could say anymore; Natasha caught his eye, but her face gave nothing away. So everyone believed Margarita was dead.

“Of course he told me. My damn systems; who else is going to get your ass inside and keep an eye on you?” Tony might have sounded like he was joking, but Clint could sense the hurt underneath. Yet another mistake to chalk up to Clint’s stupidity.

“Yeah, well, as Tasha just reminded me, I’m an idiot. Have to make my quota of bad decisions for the month. I should have told you. I guess I was operating on old instinct; my first thought was not to tell anyone.” He tried to shift and a sharp pain ran up to his hip, making him grimace.

 “Guess I’m not one to talk about making knee-jerk decisions,” Tony shrugged it off, but Clint could see the relief in the man’s eyes. One thing Tony Stark understood was bad choices.

“Good thing there are people willing to put up with our shit, eh?” Clint winced as the I.V. pinched.

“Thought they had you on the good stuff?” The pump beeped while Tony was talking and the next dose was administered automatically.  “Oh, good.  Once you’re all drugged up, I can ask anything I want.”

The baby mewled and began to fidget, waving her little arm that had gotten free from her blanket.  Steve’s eyes lit up. “I’ll get her.” Steve was a big guy, but his hands were gentle and careful as he picked the baby up and snuggled her against his chest.  “Hungry again? Let’s get you something to eat.”

 The small bottles were sitting in a warmer.  Deftly juggling the baby, he popped the top off of one and rubbed the nipple over her lips, squeezing drops into her mouth until she turned her head and latched on. Once she latched on, she settled into a rhythm, her sole focus getting the liquid into her stomach.

“You’re good at that, Cap.” Clint admired the way Steve was at ease.

“I used to babysit for the neighbors. I was home at lot, so I was around. ” His wide smile and shining eyes were fixed solely on the baby.  “Kids like me, what can I say?”

“Now isn’t that sweet?” Clint asked Tony; Tony’s face was almost worth the price of admission. Like a deer in the headlights, he stood frozen with nothing to say for a few seconds. His head starting to float, Clint saw Natasha surreptitiously videoing the scene.

“God, don’t you start too. Pepper’s been all adoption gung ho the last year since she started dating that singer.” Tony shuddered.  “Center of attention here, that’s me – I don’t need the competition.”

“You’d be a good dad,” Steve said calmly, jiggling the bottle a little when the baby slowed down. “Can imagine her bringing home a boy? You’d put the fear of God in him.”

“No, that would be my job,” Natasha said. “Tony would spoil a kid rotten.”

“The Halloween costumes alone,” Clint said, just the start of a slur in his speech as the medicine took effect. “She’d have her own suit by the time she could walk.”

“Okay, enough. You’re defenses should be down enough, so, Legolas, when’s the wedding?”  Tony went on the attack, turning the tables on Clint. 

“How the hell do you know that?” Damn drugs; Clint couldn’t stop his response from spilling out. “JARVIS wouldn’t have told you. We never talked about it in the tower.”

“I have my ways, Katniss, I have my ways. I know a good jeweler if you need a recommendation. The Big Guy will need a special size.” Well, at least Tony didn’t know everything, Clint thought as his vision started going fuzzy.

“Here, Tony,” Steve said, interrupting. “Come hold her.” 

Good drugs. Yep. That’s what they were. Clint couldn’t think of any reason else for why his eyelids suddenly weighed a ton and wouldn’t stay open.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Tony held up his hands and backed away. “Help me out here, Clint.”

“Mmph,” Clint tried to say.

“Come on, Tony, you have a delicate touch,” Steve was saying as Clint closed his eyes for just a second.

“… she’s crying, Steve! What do I do …” Clint surfaced and saw Tony, holding her like she was spun glass, wincing at the sound of her crying then he went back under

“… there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby. Somewhere, over the rainbow …” Who knew Steve had a nice voice? Clint let the timbre of the song about bluebirds lull him in unconsciousness.

* * *

 

“… noches, senor. Sacaste algo de descanso?” A woman’s voice, slightly familiar, that Clint’s confused brain couldn’t place.

“Yes, thank you, Sister Michael.” That voice got Clint to open his eyes. Figures came into focus: Bruce, standing by the bed, glasses perched on his nose, looking over the top of them and a woman in black … a nun … closer to the door, her face hidden by her wimple.

“It is time for la niña’s bath and shots. I will bring her right back as always.” She bobbed her head and stepped over to the bassinet. “Tu hombre is better. His chart shows he is healing.”

“He’s going to be fine.” Bruce dropped a hand onto Clint’s leg, rubbing lightly.

Sister Nina picked up the sleeping child gently, cradling her to her chest. Clint tried to bring her face into focus, but Bruce was in the way. The hairs on the back of his head began to stand up, warning bells going off.

“He was lucky you found him in time. The poison was almost to his heart,” she asked. Bruce shifted to the left, tilting his head to look down at the baby, and Clint got his first clear look at Sister Michael. The face of a forty year old woman with kind eyes was flickering in and out, replaced with a long thin nose, sallow cheeks, an elongated chin and eyes that burned silver.

“Bruce.” Clint coughed, his throat dry and scratchy. “She’s not a nun.”

Bruce turned and looked at Clint. “What’s that?”

Sister Michael made a dash for the door, baby tucked in her arms. Head shooting up, Bruce growled, green flooding his skin as he ran after her; the Big Guy appeared in two steps, his bellow of rage alerting everyone in the building.  Clint gathered his strength and jerked his left arm, IV yanked out as he sat up. Wearing nothing but a hospital gown, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, his left leg dragging across the sheets, calf still swollen and numb. Pushing off, he tried to stand and almost went down, only saving himself from face planting on the floor by grabbing onto the railing.

Shouts came from the hallway and the familiar thud of the Hulk’s weight hitting concrete. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried to find his balance. He ran his hand under the two pillows – nice hospital issue – and he felt the comforting cold weight of the butt of a Walther PPK, Natasha’s sense of humor. The cold tile chilled his bare feet; he had nowhere to tuck the gun, just the open back of the thin cotton, tied only at his neck.  He made a few halting steps, his left knee popping backwards and shooting pain up to his hip then he heard gunshots; he gritted his teeth, hauled himself to the door and out in the hall.

Sister Michael, or the body that used to be her, was trapped between Tony and Natasha on one end of the hall and the Hulk.  The baby was crying, woken from her nap and jostled around. No one was moving, the moment at a standoff; Clint staggered a couple more steps, stopping by the window that opened onto the courtyard.

“You can’t take her,” Clint managed to keep his voice steady. “The agreement is null and void now that Julio is dead.”

“I’m afraid a deal, once done, cannot be undone.” She smiled, and Clint could see a row of sharp, shiny teeth. “Gone or not, she was given to us and will be ours.”

“See, here’s the interesting part.  Your knight said that he didn’t need permission to take a host – although, as you can see, I took offense and kicked his ass back to wherever you’re from – so you shouldn’t need Julio at all. Unless, of course, children are different.” Clint’s legs were shaking but he was going to stay standing.  “Here’s what I think. She’s not old enough to consent … which technically you’re supposed to have from what I hear … and the party you made the contract with is unavailable.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Steve asked from behind him.

“Faeries make deals,” Clint answered. “But they have to follow their rules.”

“And she’s ours, free and clear,” Sister Michael said. “Signed and sealed.”

“Faeries? Like Tinkerbell, clap your hands, and shit?” Tony asked, his voice filtered through his faceplate.

“More like the Irish stories, the summer and winter courts. Where Tolkien got the idea of his elves.” Clint was nearing the end of his strength. “Give her back and we might let you live, if just for information.”

The laughter didn’t fit with the nun package. “You won’t hurt me, just this body and the child.”

“Can you break off some of those bars?” Clint spoke to Steve, nodding to the wrought iron decorative scrollwork covering the window. “Strange, but even though Tony’s called Iron Man, his suit is really not made out of iron. Pass those around, will you, Steve?”

“This only buys you a little time. We’ll be coming for her,” Sister Michael warned.

“And we’ll be right here, waiting for you,” Clint promised. Steve had an iron rod and he gave one to Phil. “Hand her over, nice and easy.”

“You’re wide open, Little Hawk. I might not be able to take you, but I can hurt you.”

She threw the baby in the air and sent a bolt of light slamming into Clint; skidding on his ass, he tumbled backwards, pain exploding in his head. The Hulk roared and lunged at her, but she dodged to the side. Curling his body up tight, protecting his cast against his stomach, Clint struggled to follow the action through the waves of agony that cascaded through him. He squinted his eyes, tears pouring from the corners, and watched as both Steve and Phil hefted their iron bars and tried to surround her. Screams from the baby assaulted his ears and pierced into the fire that engulfed his brain. He could barely make out the dark form that slipped out of the nun’s body, leaving it to collapse on the floor; Steve caught the shape with one swing and it disintegrated, blown into a million parts that floated up and out of the building. The pain stopped the second Steve’s iron broke the creature apart; nausea rolled in his stomach but Clint pushed it back down.

The Big Guy sat in the middle of the hallway, hands cupped, rocking back and forth and humming a song from _The Little Mermaid_. Cradled in his palms, the baby blinked and started to drift off, soothed by the music and the vibration.

“Good catch, Jolly Green,” Tony said, slapping the Hulk on the bicep.

“Shhhhh!” The Hulk hissed back. “Baby sleeping.” Tony’s visor flipped open and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Let me help you,” Steve said, slipping his hands under Clint’s arms. “Can you get up?”

“I’m fine here, thanks.” His arm was throbbing and his head spinning, the cold of the tile floor a good feeling.

“Much as I enjoy your naked ass,” Tony said in a stage whisper. “You should probably cover the family jewels; you’re scaring the nuns.”

 


	8. The Forbidden Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has to face something he's been repressing if he's going to help his granddaughter ... and he has to keep from falling in love with the child he can never keep.
> 
> Warning: memories of noncon and sexual abuse mentioned. Loki's a bastard in this universe, so be forewarned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, references to past noncon and sexual abuse mentioned in this chapter. If that bothers you, skip the "THEN" and the memories of Clint's time under Loki's control. 
> 
> Also, serious baby cuteness in this chapter.

**THEN**

“Tell me of this Hulk, my little Hawk. What sets him off?”

Icy fingers trailed down the back of his neck, caressing along his sweaty hair. Clint shivered, his body reacting without his brain agreeing.

“Most believe anger is the key, but that’s not all. The Hulk is as much about fear.”

A memory floated up: a warm night, water drops running down beer bottles, cold seafood in a handmade bowl, a pair of enticing brown eyes, and long lean fingers peeling the edges of the wet label.  He let it sink back under the frozen surface of his brain, far away from prying questions.

“Fear? What has a giant to fear?”

Lazy swirls on his skin were punctuated by sharp jabs into the soft tissue, little reminders of how powerless he was and who owned him.

“He’s been hunted, betrayed, abused, taken advantage of … hell, everyone tries to kill him so he’s not paranoid. You corner an angry, scared man and he’ll turn on you.”

Inside, he was screaming, trying with all his might to stop the flow of words and information, but he was no more in control of his mouth as he was his hands. His only help was the spell itself; he had to answer, but only exactly what was asked. No more, no less. He didn’t have to offer up any extra details.

“He won’t trust the others or SHIELD. Very good. Yes, I can use that. Now, tell me what I want to hear,  how much you desire me.”

The hand stopped on his shoulder and squeezed, fingers fitting into the livid bruises already there, forcing Clint down. The edge of exhaustion hovered just beyond his reach, and he wished more than anything to fall over and pass out, but the magic kept him going.

“I want you.”

His bare knees hit the cold, wet concrete, the feel of leather brushing along his naked back. The heavy weight of the manacles clasped his wrists as Loki drew his arms above his head and looped the chain over the hook.

“Indeed you do, Little Hawk, because you are mine.”

Clint closed his eyes, burrowed deep into the darkest parts of his mind, and thought of anything but the feel of those long fingers and the pain they would bring.

**NOW**

Clint winced as Steve sat him down on the bed, his leg and knee protesting the change in angles and orientation. He should have been humiliated to be carried back into his room, but the throbbing in his head and matching aches all over his body were enough to make him ignore the way his gown flapped open. Wasn’t like it was the first time the others had seen his naked ass and probably wouldn’t be the last. Besides, he was too concerned with the Hulk carrying the baby to really think about it. The Big Guy had shrunk down to close to human size to get through the doorway and was refusing to pass his bundle over to anyone else, growling at Sister Francis.

“Hey, Big Guy,” Clint called out over the other voices. “No scaring the nuns, okay? They’re nice women who are helping us.”

“Nun take baby,” the Hulk pointed out. “Might try again.”

“He’s got a point,” Tony said, his suit folding back into a compact briefcase that he stowed by the rocking chair. “None of us could tell the difference but you could.”

“Yeah. Maybe the drugs or something, but that was definitely a faery wearing a nun suit.” Clint tried not to snap at the nun who was putting his I.V. back in and priming the morphine drip. “Really? I’m fine. I don’t need …” He grimaced as the needle searched for a vein.

“Maybe JARVIS can figure out a way to tell whose body had been inhabited, a sort of detector,” Steve asked. He shook out a second blanket and covered Clint to help stop his shivering.

“Already on it. JARVIS found elevated heart rates and white blood cell counts, so maybe her body was trying to fight off the invasion … we should be checking for pods! Downstairs would be ideal.” Before Tony could go further on that tangent, Steve stepped over to the Hulk and looked down at the baby.

“Time for bath,” the Hulk reminded them all. “And food.”

“You want to learn how to give a baby a bath?” Steve asked him. That cheered the Big Guy right up and he nodded eagerly.

“Hulk be gentle,” he promised.

“I know you will. Sister Francis, do you have a baby tub we could use? Best if we do it in here.” Steve slipped into his Captain America voice, the one no one could say no to. In her late forties, the woman who ran this whole clinic blushed and nodded before she swept out of the room.

“Look at our Stevey. Making friends.” Tony sidled over and bumped Steve, shoulder to shoulder. “Babies are magnets; carry one around and everyone wants to get in your pants.”

“Not in front of baby!” Hulk insisted, giving Tony an irritated glare.

“Whoa! She can’t understand me yet, Big Green.  Don’t worry,” Tony held up his hands in surrender.

“Why don’t you sit in the rocker, Hulk, and we can get her calmed down. She’s still fussy,” Steve suggested.

Clint watched as the Hulk settled into the chair, Steve helping arrange the baby in his arms; the green guy held her like she was spun glass, barely touching her, letting her rest on his muscles as he started to sway back and forth. He hummed, and Clint smothered a laugh as he recognized the music from the game Tetris, but the tune worked as she calmed down and stared up at the Hulk’s face. Sister Francis brought back a foam pad with a baby sized indentation and showed Steve; he was expecting a plastic tub, but this was much nicer. He laid out a towel on the counter by the sink, ran some barely warm soapy water and motioned the Hulk over.

Even Tony fell silent as the bath took place. Steve walked the Hulk through every step, wetting the rag, easy strokes, moving quickly to keep her warm. The Hulk laughed when she peed as soon as the diaper came off and he bit his tongue as he meticulously cleaned every fold and curve of her tiny body. In return, she waved her arms and tickled the Hulk to no end – he thought she was waving at him not just responding to the feel of the water and the air on her skin. Those tape tabs on diapers were not made for green thick fingers nor were the itty bitty sliver snaps on her onesie, so Steve took care of those, but the Hulk wrapped her tight in a clean blanket and tugged on a new pink cap that he picked out.

Of all the wounds Clint had suffered in his life, the regret that lanced through him was one of the worst. To see the Hulk so tender and loving, the way Steve beamed up at the Big Guy as he cradled the baby in his hands, the look on Tony’s face as his eyes tracked Steve’s every move, caught between wanting so desperately and knowing he would screw it up – Clint knew there was no way this was going to end without all of them hurting.  Falling in love with this baby was a recipe for disaster. They couldn’t keep her. Not because he wouldn’t be a good parent, which he doubted very much given his own fucked up childhood. And not because he worried about the Big Guy being around her; the Hulk would be the greatest protector a child could ever have. No, they couldn’t keep her because she’d be constantly in danger, at risk by her very connection to Clint. Julio Rogero had already come after Ronin. Loki was out there and Clint didn’t believe for one second that asshole was done with him. Mab and her minions were the immediate threat, but there was Victor Von Doom and HYDRA and AIM and who knew who else waiting in the wings. The Tower’d been blown up three times now, Clint kidnapped … what four times? … General Ross was out there and a Red Hulk … No, there was no place for a baby to be safe around Clint Barton.

Natasha’s hand squeezed his; he looked up into those green eyes and read the sympathy and understanding. She knew, better than anyone else, just what kind of life they led and what sacrifices that entailed. Without blinking, she pushed the button to dispense pain medicine, bent over and kissed Clint on the forehead. “You need to rest. They’ll try again.”

“Hold her up a little,” Tony was saying, taking pictures with his phone. “Pepper wants to see her face while her eyes are open.”

A nun brought in a cart with more diapers and blankets, stowing them away in the cabinets. She sat out a dozen prepared formulas bottles; Steve slipped one into the warmer as Tony continued to fuss with JARVIS about which picture was the best then put the rest in the small fridge. The first head rush hit Clint – seriously, this stuff was way better than the morphine he got at SHIELD – so he laid back and let the aches stay anchored to his body as he floated away. Taking the rocker, the Hulk sat down and got read to feed the baby, the white cloth tossed over his shoulder. They’ll try again, Nat has said. Try to take her or make her open for Mab to …

“Stop.” Clint blinked his eyes opened and turned his head. “Tony. Check the formula for the drug they used. If they can get it in her system, she’ll be open to them.”

“Fuck.” Tony grabbed the bottle from Steve’s hands and squeezed a drop onto his metal bracelet. “Legolas is right. Where did this come from?”

The nun, an older grey haired woman, shrank back as they all turned their gaze on her. “The supply room, Señor. Where all the formula is made.”

“Sir,” JARVIS said, voice coming through Tony’s phone. “I found MDMA, psilocybin, and opioids in small increments; there is a 92% that this is the same drug used on Agent Barton and in the syringe.”

The  Hulk jumped up and opened his mouth to roar, but stopped as the baby cried. It was Phil who stepped up and put his hands on the nun’s arms.

“Yo no comprende,” she said, reverting to her native language. “Que?”

“The formula,” Phil said in flawless Spanish. “Did you put the drug in the formula?”

“No!” She shook her head. “I just pick up. Deliver to room.”

“She’s not one of them.” Clint couldn’t see anything there but the scared face of a confused woman.

“These bottles, were they specifically for her?” Phil kept his voice easy, and the nun began to calm.

“Si, su nombre, Barton. Babies have different formulas,” she replied.

“Who has access to the room?” Steve asked.

“All of us, El Capitán. And the janitors and the maintenance man … anyone with a master key.”

The baby’s cries grew louder, her face scrunched up and turning red; the Hulk began to get bigger, his protective instincts kicking in.

“Come on, Agent Agent. Let’s see if I can tap into the ancient security system and find us a rat.” Tony was angry as he picked up his case. “I’ve had enough of this.”

“She’s hungry. Is there any other formula?” Steve spoke to the nun; she bobbed her head and answered.

“Si, Senor. You want to mix it? I have unopened jars,” she offered. “I’ll take you there.”

“Sounds good. Tony?” Steve asked. Stark tossed him his phone.

“JARVIS can scan it for you.” Tony grinned. “Use the watch I gave you.”

The Hulk was bouncing, jiggling the baby, singing now to get her attention. Clint was slipping into sleep, fighting to stay awake.

“It’s okay. We’ve got this.” Natasha bent over him, her red curls falling around her face.

And he was gone.

* * *

 

“Agent Barton. I’m sorry for intruding this way, but we can’t wait for you to awaken.”

He had longish brown hair, shaggy and feathered, a brown leather jacket, and a paisley orange and lime green shirt, but the voice was familiar. Clint flipped through his memories on the big screen in the living room and stopped when he hit the same face, only older and with a whole lot less hair.

“Professor. Wow, serious 70s flashback.”

“I did make some very terrible fashion choices back then. But I do sometimes miss having hair.” Charles Xavier looked down at himself and smiled.

“You make it look good.” Clint offered Professor Xavier a stool at the kitchen island as he continued to dice zucchini for the stir fry he was making for dinner. The cutting board was littered with piles of peppers, onions, and mushrooms.  “I guess I’m still asleep; they gave me some pain medication after I decided to go for that walk.”

“You should be under for a while longer,” Xavier sat down and looked around the kitchen, taking in the apartment in a quick glance. The rice cooker steaming away on the counter, the dumplings ready to go in next. The stainless steel fridge dotted with construction paper covered with crayon scribbles and candid snaps of Bruce and Clint and a little brown haired girl. Tall ceilings with ductwork exposed, larger than normal doorways with sliding doors. A desk in the corner of the living room littered with stacks of papers, an open textbook and Bruce’s glasses.  A napkin with a few remaining goldfish and an empty Elmo cup with the last drops of apple juice sitting on the counter.  “Perhaps it is for the best this way, easier to learn what we need to. Your friends are quite … protective of you.”

“Natasha threatened you, Tony pulled his ‘I can make your life miserable’ schtick, Steve gave you the disapproving frown, and Bruce thanked you while reminding you of the Big Guy’s habit of destroying things.” Clint knew them all well; he glanced over at a frame picture of them all, arms around each other, kids playing in the sand of their favorite beach.

“Stark went with the government contract angle, but otherwise, yes to the rest.” Xavier didn’t seem worried or upset. “They have a right to worry; this won’t be simple or easy.”

“I wouldn’t trust it if it was. Let me welcome you to the set of my repressed desires. What I want and can’t have.” Here, in his own head with all his defenses down, Clint understood in ways his waking mind would never admit. “When the Tesseract was going sentient and I was traipsing through Wonderland and the Matrix, this was the happy place I invented to keep me from going crazy.”

Xavier tilted his head and looked right through him; the gaze was uncomfortably aware. “Why can’t you have this? There’s nothing that says you can’t have a life and a family.”

“Right. See how well that worked for Margarita? And the baby, at risk from the second she’s born?” Clint dropped the knife in the island sink and washed his hands.

“Your daughter is safe; she’s safely on my plane even as we speak, sedated and ready to return with me to my school. You know, I will do everything I can to help her recover and rebuild her life. I have experience dealing with those whose abilities are accelerated by traumatic events. She has a chance to make a new start for herself and she’ll be among others with mutant abilities.” Charles laid his hand on Clint’s arm, stilling him. “I promise to take care of her. She’s strong, strong enough to realize she isn’t ready to raise a child and that she needs help. That bodes well for her future.”

He’d known that Nat didn’t leave Margarita behind; the Xavier’s school was a good place for her to grow up and, maybe, do more than just survive. “Thank you, Professor,” he said. “Someday, I’d like to meet her, I mean beyond a hallucinated drug trip conversation. If she wants to.”

“Please. Call me Charles.” He let Clint go, sitting back on the stool. “It may be a while. You’ll need to be patient.”

“Seems like the least I can do after abandoning her for all these years.” Rummaging in a cabinet, Clint pulled out two highball glasses and sat them on the counter. He opened another door, took down a bottle of Glenlivet and poured a couple fingers in each then slid one over to Xavier. “But that’s not what you’re here to talk about it, is it? I have a feeling I’m going to need this drink.”

Charles took a sip, savoring the rich peaty taste. “You said something to Bruce about protecting the baby from Mab. Her mind is currently being shielded by one of my students, but we need a more permanent solution before there’s another attempt.”

“They can’t have her.” Clint felt the stir of his own anger, joined by the rumble of the Hulk’s displeasure. The floor shook and Charles arched an eyebrow. With a calming hand, Xavier stopped Clint from waking up.

 “Hulk not get to fight.” With angry brown eyes and clenched fists, the Hulk punched the wall; dishes rattled and Clint grabbed his glass before it tumbled off the counter. “Find Tinkerbell and smash.”

“Chill, Big Guy,” Clint said, patting the Hulk’s arm. “There’ll be plenty of bad guys to smash later. Promise.”

“Not supposed to be here. Little Guy says to let Wheels talk to you alone.” When the Hulk wanted to, he could work up a really good pout, and he was certainly doing that now. Clint tried not to laugh at the sight of a big green guy with his bottom lip stuck out.

“It’s okay. Pretty sure keeping us apart isn’t possible anyway. Just don’t get all possessive on me, okay?” Clint opened the fridge and tossed the Hulk a bottle of Gatorade. “There are no boundaries in my head right now, are there?” he asked Xavier. “That’s what she meant when she said I was completely open.”

“Yes. That’s also why you’re healing so fast; you’re drawing on the Hulk’s abilities that he’s freely sharing. The effects of the drug are wearing off, however; you should go back to normal in a week or so.”

“Hulk share.” He drained the bottle in one gulp and lobbed it into the recycle bin. “Make Cupid better.”

“Love you too, Big Guy.” Clint bumped against the Hulk affectionately; what difference did it matter if Xavier saw? He’d already been in Bruce’s head, so he knew about their triangle of a relationship.

“Papa, I can’t sleep.” Becca stood in the doorway of her bedroom, rubbing her eyes and yawning, wearing her Iron Man footie pajamas from her Uncle Tony.  “Those shadow monsters are under my bed again.”

“Well, you know what makes them run away, don’t you?” Clint scooped her up in his arms; she laid her head on his chest, her eyelids drooping.

“Daddy?” she whispered, snuggling up against him.

 “Hulk growl and make them run.” The Big Guy reached out and Clint passed the little girl over. She was so small compared to the Hulk’s bulk, but she curled right up in his arms, sighing gustily as she settled in.

“Keep her safe for me,” Clint said. “I’ve got to do something.”

“Not want Hulk to see.” He rocked the girl, patting her back as she drifted back to sleep.

“I need to do this for her. They’re just memories, okay? Look, let’s compromise. Bruce can stay with me, and you go with Becca.”

The Hulk huffed as he gave a jerky nod , and Becca shifted, eyes cracking open. “Daddy angry?”

“No, baby, Daddy’s going to tell you a story,” Clint said, ruffling her hair. The Hulk began to hum as he walked into her room, rolling the oversized door shut behind him.  “I’m ready. Let’s do this.” He turned to Xavier. 

“Fascinating,” Xavier said.

Bruce stepped up behind Clint and put his hand on the small of his back, a comforting warmth. The room spun and changed; Clint was standing in a hallway of nothing but doors. “One impossible future that I dreamed up, and Becca’s been part of this fantasy since the Tesseract. How could I have known?”

“You know the answer to that.” Charles stood patiently in the middle of the hallway, waiting on Clint to make the connection.

“Mutant genes, nannites … and I get some psychic precognition shit. Great. Super strength, flight; Storm’s abilities are cool as hell. Me? I know what might happen. That’s helpful.”  Really. It irked him to no end. Mamby pamby powers.

“How do you know where a target’s going to be? How to adjust for the wind and the weather and the weight of an unfamiliar arrow?” Charles asked. “You’re no more psychic than Tony or Bruce, Clint. You’re just able to add things together and jump further than others, faster.  Which means you know what you have to do.”

The door in front of him pulsed with a familiar blue light, heavy wooden bars anchored across the length. “God damn it all to hell. I don’t want to open that.”

“I need to see what he did that’s shielding you from Mab and the others,” Charles said, his voice calm. 

“I’ll be right here with you,” Bruce assured him.

There was a reason Clint shoved things behind doors and locked them away. Not everything had to be dealt with, despite what the shrinks said; a healthy ability to ignore the obvious could be very useful. SHIELD trained all its operatives in various methods of dealing with trauma; compartmentalizing bad shit let him keep going rather than curling up into a ball and refusing to get out of bed. Put it away and move on until you couldn’t go anymore.

“Fuck it.” Clint yanked at the knob and threw it open.

_Natasha, sweating as she threw a punch in the dark bowels of the Helicarrier._

_Sighting down the shaft, Maria Hill turning to shout across the bridge as the arrow flew to its target._

_A vantage point, two guards, German commands over the comms, an arrow loosed and hitting its mark._

_Gun aimed, finger on the trigger, the bullet hitting Fury’s Kevlar vest, knocking him backwards._

_Cold seeping into his bones, the world blue and distant._

_Loki’s voice in his ear, asking question after question._

_Iron on his wrists, teeth clenched and his mind hidden away, unable to feel the pain._

_Hand pressing on his shoulder, thrusts rocking him forward onto his already bruised knees._

_“Come for me, my Little Hawk”_

“Clint, I’ve got you, you’re okay, he’s not here.”

Arms held him, rocking back and forth. Clint choked back a sob and took a deep breath, forcing the fear back down into its hole.  Memory by memory, he put them away, slowly becoming aware of the tumult around him. Bruce was practically vibrating, his anger palpable, green winding under his skin. Muffled voices came from all around them.

“Tell them we’re alright?” Clint asked the Professor. “And give us a second?”

He nodded and was gone; the tumult around them died down and Bruce sagged, tension flowing away.

“Next time I see the bastard, I’m not going to stop the Other Guy.” He buried his nose in Clint’s hair, pressing his chest to Clint’s back. “How the hell do you even let me touch you?”

“Because you remind me how good it is. I’d be so screwed up if you didn’t love me. You,” Clint turned his head to look at Bruce, “make me better, stronger, able to do this, to face it.”

“I don’t want you to go back in there,” Bruce said, “but I know you have to. God, Clint, I’d do it for you if I could.”

“Just stay with me. That’s enough.” Clint covered Bruce’s hand with his and gave him a quick kiss.

“I’m sorry for this.” Xavier crouched down by Clint. “But I need you to take me to the moment it happened, when Loki first took your will.”

“Right.” Clint stood, still holding onto Bruce as he faced the door again. “Everyone okay out there?”

“They’re not happy, but cooler heads prevailed,” Charles said. “You have some staunch supporters.”

“Yeah, I know.” He eyed the doorway. “Let’s do this.”

The room spun and expanded; it was like one of Tony’s holographic projections, but Clint could touch the table with the Tesseract, could brush fingers against Fury’s leather coat. Loki stood with the spear held out, power discharging and flying across the room. Time started moving forward; Selvig was blown aside, Fury ducked for cover, Clint tumbled but pulled himself up and went for his gun.

“You have heart,” Loki said and the tip of the spear touch Clint’s chest … then the memory froze like a VCR on pause.

“Yes, here. This is when it happened.” Charles walked over and stood next to the Asgardian, looking at the memory. “You really do see everything, don’t you? This is very complete.” He circled the spear, stared at the point where it touched Clint’s chest. “Can you move us ahead slowly?”

Like slow motion, a circle of blue spread up and out. Clint’s head came up, his gun slipped back in its holster, and blue curtained across his irises. Bile surged up his throat as he felt the echo of the ice forming and shoving his conscious aside. He breathed through it, clenching his fists at his side as the scene stopped.

“Interesting. Show me the others?” Charles requested. This time he watched Loki confront Ferguson and Selvig, stopping at the moment of contact. “I think I understand.” He walked back over to Clint. “May I?”

Clint agreed and Xavier touched the exact spot in the center of Memory Clint’s chest where the spear had rested. The room shifted again and Clint was looking at a target, close enough to see the various circles from previous strikes. Dead center were two large marks; one was old and scabbed over, blue and purple bruising just about faded away. The other was pulsing with a green light, shifting and moving, a healthy circle. Smaller marks were dotted around, some very faint, some further out, some inside the inner circle and strong.

“We all have people who have claims on us, those we love, those we hate, those we respect.  Loki used the power of the Tesseract to force his will on you.  What’s left is an echo of his magic,” Xavier said, pointing to the old, blue scabbed over surface.

“A wound from a Morgul blade,” Bruce added. At the Professor’s look, he explained. “ _Lord of the Rings_. Anyone stabbed with one of them has to be healed by special means and they always feel a phantom pain.”

“Ooooh, good Tolkien reference, Doc. I’m proud of you.” Clint patted Bruce on the back.

“It’s a good analogy. Loki is gone, but the bruises will always remain. This one, on the other hand,” he reached towards the green spot, “has the marks of magic but is voluntarily entered into. I would imagine it is …”

_…Then Bruce’s tongue swept up his inner thigh, a tingling of his power left behind; Bruce lifted his head, his eyes green now, facial features changing, fangs growing longer. In the second before he struck, Clint realized what he was going to do then teeth plunged into his femoral artery … The wave of ecstasy blew through him, straight into his chest and up into his head_ … _“Fuck!” Bucking up, he came onto one elbow, eyes on the brown hair that was ever so lightly stroking his thigh in time to the incessant pull of Bruce’s mouth …_

“Sorry,” Clint mumbled as Xavier stepped back and dropped his hand. “That’s, um, …”

“I do remember what sex is,” he laughed. “But vampires?”

“Archangel or Trickster, still not sure which, and Tesseract energy,” Bruce supplied. “So, yes, magic.”

“Enhanced further by the nannites and the wonder drug Julio gave me. So we don’t need Loki specifically; other kinds of magic would work. And it can be a choice. That’s good.” Clint tilted his head and looked at the rest. “So these would be …” He touched another, close to the center.

_“Talk to me, Barton.” Phil said in his ear, all calm voice despite the explosions going on around them._

_“Getting a tan over here, boss,” Clint snarked back_.

“Phil,” Clint laughed.  “And this is …”

_“You have terrible taste, misha.” Natasha tossed his drink in the potted plant by the bar. She waved a platinum card at the bartender who brought them two ice cold glasses with clear alcohol._

_“What’s this?” He asked, eyeing the way it clung to the sides as he swirled it._

_“Vodka, the drink of gods.”_

“No magic there,” Bruce said.

“Just human relationships.” Charles agreed. “Which means we can definitely make this work.”

“Wonder who ..?” Clint reached again for one of the oldest.

_Soft humming, rocking, soft soothing pats on his back as he cried himself to sleep, burrowing into her warm arms._

“My mother.” Clint stared. “She left her mark on me.”

“You’re her grandfather,” Xavier said.

“And that’s how I’m going to protect her.”

* * *

 

Clint Barton had faced drug lords, serial killers, torturers, alien invaders, demi-gods, and fairy knights, but the thought of holding a tiny helpless baby scared him right down to the marrow of his bones. So fragile, her little fists waving in the air like she was ready to take on the world, all he could think of was the ways he could hurt her. Her yawn was wide, nearly splitting her face, scrunching up her nose and consuming the part of her face not covered by the knit cap or the blankets.

“Support her head in your elbow above the cast and rest her on your lap.” Bruce put the baby into position.  “Nice and easy.”

She weighed nothing, but generated heat that he could feel through the cotton t-shirt he was wearing. Turning her head, her lips pursed as she searched for a nipple. “That’s not going to work,” he said. Bruce passed over a bottle and she latched on as soon as Clint got it near her mouth, sucking steadily at the milky liquid that Tony had flown in. Mesmerized, he watched her; he knew on a logical level that all babies have blue eyes so it didn’t mean anything but his heart had different ideas.

“Are you ready?” Xavier rolled to a stop by the bed. Behind him was a lovely dark haired woman in a red dress; Charles had introduced her as a gypsy witch who was willing to provide the magic to boost Clint’s familial claim.

“What do I do?” Clint tried not to breath too hard; he didn’t want to disturb her.

“Put your fingers over her heart,” Charles rolled right next to the bed. Stretching out his hand, he put two fingers on her forehead, pushing up her cap to touch skin. “All you have to do is think about ….”

“Papa? Who’s he?” She cowered behind Clint’s legs, arms wrapped around his knee, looking across the kitchen to where Xavier sat in his wheelchair by the picture windows. “He’s a stranger and Mrs. Montgomery taught us about stranger danger.”

“He’s a friend of mine, baby.” Clint pried her hands free and scooped her up. “You remember those shadow monsters under your bed? Well, Professor X here is going to put a spell on you that will keep them away.”

“Magic?” She asked, watching Xavier carefully. “Like Harry Potter?”

“That’s my smart girl. Not exactly like Harry. He’s not Voldemort; he’s more like Dumbledore. He’s going to take my love for you and make it so the bad people can’t get you.” Oh, God, Clint was in deep. How was he ever going to let this beautiful little girl go?

“Then we need Daddy too. You always say we’re packing a deal.”

“I don’t …” Clint looked to Xavier for help. “She means we’re a package deal. All four of us.”

“I can get him. He’s right here,” Charles said. “If you want.”

“It won’t work without Daddy.” She inherited every ounce of Clint’s stubbornness plus some, and she’d learned to pout from the Big Guy.

“Get Bruce.” Too late. It was too late. Someone was going to end up broken, and it was probably going to be him. He closed his eyes and opened them again as Bruce leaned over his bed, slipping one arm behind Clint’s shoulders and the other around the baby.

In the end, it was fast and easy. They held her and Xavier touched her; red magic pulsed, branching out to both Clint and Bruce. And that was all it took. Just opening his heart and letting this tiny baby take hold of the very essence of his soul.

“With both of your marks, all three of you should be safe now.” Charles’s mouth curled up in a soft smile as he looked at them, their hands joined over the sleeping child. Then he and the woman in red left the room.

“She’s Becca, isn’t she?” Bruce stroked her cheek and she turned her head, mouth working even in her sleep.

“Oh God, Bruce.” When her eyes cracked open, he tumbled right into those blue-grey irises. “I am soo screwed.”


	9. The Choices of Master Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more hurdle to overcome ... that seems to be Clint's life lately. But decisions are made and it's time for Clint to grow up and take responsibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so long. RL sucks. 'Nuff said.
> 
> There have been a handful of characters who took the name Ronin in various Marvel Universes.

**THEN**

The message was short and to the point. _The usual place. 2:30 p.m. – R._

Probably out of curiousity as much as anything else, Clint left the Tower to head to SHIELD Headquarters, made a stop at the bodega on the corner to replenish his stash of Twizzlers and to get an Almond Mocha Frappacino at the coffee shop down the street. Then he slipped the jammer around his wrist and thumbed the program that would feed fake data through his imbedded chip to SHIELD servers. Tony made them when he realized SHIELD was tracking everyone just weeks after the Battle of New York; Bruce had talked him out of surgically removing the “invasive Big Brother damn things,” as Tony had called the implants, arguing that SHIELD would find another way to keep tabs on them. Even Steve, when he returned from his walkabout, agreed that privacy was important enough to warrant a little white lie occasionally. That had shocked Tony, but Clint already had a good read on the Captain; Steve was far from the old-fashioned prude Stark liked to poke fun at. He just had a lot of catching up to do.

After the whole blue-eyed compromised thing … Clint wasn’t ready to say the bastard’s name yet … people were still looking sideways at him and the last thing he needed was to get their attention. So he swung around the diner, arriving a good thirty minutes late on purpose, and went in through the back door. Ralph, the afternoon cook, grunted and went back to flipping a burger when he saw who it was. From here, Clint had a good view of the figure sitting in the last booth on the left, her back to the wall. She’d grown her hair out long; it was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her slim neck, dark and smooth. Last he’d heard, she was going by the name Echo and working out on the West Coast; they’d run into each other over the years, off and on, but he’d last seen her in Japan over ten years ago.

Picking up an order of fries from the counter and earning a huff from Ralph, Clint left the kitchen and walked over to the table where Maya Lopez waited. Sliding in the booth, he picked up the ketchup and poured a generous dollop on the white porcelain plate he put in the middle of the table.

*Good chips* he signed. That’s one of the side effects of sonic arrows – temporary deafness. Clint had suffered close misses a couple times and learned ASL along the way. Damn useful in all kinds of situations to be able to talk without saying a word.

*Milkshake’s not bad* she replied and swirled her straw in the tall glass with the chocolate ice cream mixture. Simple signal phrases that meant they were both there alone and not followed.

Clint ate a couple of the hot fries before Maya reached over and grabbed a long golden one, scooping up a lot of ketchup before popping the end into her mouth. He waited for her to open the conversation since she was the one who called the meeting.

*How’s it feel to be famous?* She smiled, the faint scar across her face pulling as she did. In the right light, it looked like a handprint spanning from cheek to forehead, but Clint had never asked about it.

*Shitty most days, but the food’s top notch.* Truth, really. He did miss the anonymity of the old days.

*Bet the beds in StarkTower are pretty damn soft. Got maid service too.” She worked her way through the fries before the waitress, Pam, stopped by the table.

“You want some coffee or anything else?” She asked.

“I’ll have the BLT,” Clint ordered. *You?* he signed to Maya.

“Chili cheeseburger.” Her voice was perfectly modulated; you’d never know she was deaf.

*If I don’t put the laundry down the chute, it doesn’t get done, thank you very much,*Clint said after Pam had left.

*Yeah, well, those toys look nothing like you.* Taking a long draw on her milkshake, she was laughing at him, Clint could see. Same old Maya. Strange sense of humor, but one Clint identified with.  *Being big time stop you from helping a friend? Gotta ask permission from the Captain or Fury?*

*What do you need?* Here it was. She obviously had a job or she wouldn’t be here.

*Kidnapped kid. Dad’s scumbag arms dealer, small time out on the coast; doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he’s paid, but he dotes on the little boy. An up-and-comer hired Cross for the job.*

William Cross. God damn it. That psycho bastard would kill the kid if he so much as sneezed. *How long has he had him?*

*Six hours. Kid’s mother lives in the Hamptons. She called Murdoch who called me.* Leaning closer, she hid her hands behind the milkshake. *You know Cross better than anyone.*

Clint shook his head even as he knew she wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t her only option. From the day she’d handed over the Ronin title to him, Maya hadn’t asked for a single favor. And Clint knew Crossfire all too well; he’d run across the mercenary a number of times and beat him every time. As soon as Cross provided proof of life, the kid was expendable.

*He’s seven, and he was wearing a Hulk t-shirt today.* Maya saved that as her clincher; she knew she had him even if she didn’t know about his growing friendship with the Big Guy.

*I can’t go in as Hawkeye,* he signed.  *Too noticeable.*

*He’s never met Ronin,* she replied.

**NOW**

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Natasha blocked the doorway, the light from the florescent bulbs glowing behind, her face lost in dark shadow.  Pushing away from the bed, Clint glanced over at the sleeping baby to check on her one more time.

“What I have to.” He flexed his right hand, the skin still bearing the marks of the recently removed cast. This Hulk healing thing was great and had knitted his bones in just two days. Only a throb in his left calf remained of the swollen snake bite and a bit of a fragile after effect of the drugs clung to his brain. Handing over a slim white slip of cardstock, he buckled his belt and slipped his gun into the holster.

She turned the calling card to the light and read it.  “And you’re just going to walk into his home and say hello? Worked out well with the son, so the same thing with the dad?”

“I’ve got leverage.” Jorge Ochoa controlled the police force and most of the government; if he wanted Clint captured or dead, he could probably get it done without a fuss. No, the card was Ochoa’s way of inviting Clint for a talk.

“His only living heir.” Natasha didn’t move, unimpressed.

“She’ll never be safe if Ochoa doesn’t agree. We can’t protect her from Mab only to have cartel enemies after her.” Clint tucked his knife in its sheath. “Ochoa might want her to raise as his own.”

“He wants the man who killed his two sons to leave the secure location he’s in and walk right into his sights.” She was baiting him, he knew, but he wasn’t rising to it.

“And thus, why I’m going with back up.” He nodded to the hallway where Bruce waited. She shut her eyes and shook her head.

“Guess you can teach an old dog,” she said. “You need me to be on baby duty while you’re gone?”

“If you would. Steve’s already claimed the next feeding and bath time, and Thor’s due back later this evening, but I’d feel better if you were on guard too,” Clint said.  Bruce had been the one to insist he go along; Clint’s plan had been to slip in and out, and he was feeling pretty damn mature about not only telling Bruce from the get-go but also for listening to his argument. Tasha was right; Clint was capable of learning.

“Keep him from doing anything too stupid,” she said to Bruce.

“Oh, no, that’s outside my bailiwick,” Bruce laughed. “Our understanding is that he can do stupid things as long as I know about them first.”

“Enlightened.  I usually just rely on a swift kick to the backside.”

“I’m right here, people.” Clint glanced over at the baby who was starting to make noises. “And the sooner we’re out of here, the sooner we can settle this.”

His heart winced at that thought. Coulson had already started working on compiling a list of possible homes – there were ex-SHIELD agents, Marines, RAF and others to be run through background checks. The best solution was a family, somewhere in middle suburbia, with a parent in the know to keep an eye on her for mutant development. A couple or someone willing to relocate, change identities and start over. If anyone could do it, Clint trusted Coulson could pull it off with May’s help.

Still didn’t mean Clint was happy about it.

* * *

 

Jorge Ochoa had waited until later in life to have children; he’d been 36 before Rogero was born. Now he was 70, starting to get fragile, his thinning frame beginning to hunch, steps careful as he crossed to pour himself a drink. His dark hair was filled with grey streaks, and his hand shook slightly, rattling the ice against the side of the glass. A long wall of bulletproof glass held an amazing view of the distant mountains, filling the living room with late afternoon shadows.  A Renoir hung on the wall behind the bar, a Rodan sculpture on a pedestal under a soft light, and a Monet water lilies prominently displayed.

“Don’t touch that,” he said in perfect English, the slightest British accent.  Clint stepped away from the bronze sculpture of a horse. “That’s a Hebrard casting of a Degas. It’s going to the Metropolitan when I die.”

“One of the twenty originals?” Bruce asked. “I’ve seen The Dancer, but none of the others.”

“That one was made for Hebrard himself. I bought it from a little French woman who had no idea her mother had an affair with the man.” Ochoa laughed, a rich laid back sound of a man with no fear. “You move quickly for a man who was almost dead three days ago.”

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” Clint drawled. He dropped on the brown leather sofa, spreading out with his arm across the back. “We’ve had a slight misunderstanding.”

“You killed my sons, Clinton Barton. Let us not lie to each other.  I have little time left on this Earth and no patience for the dance anymore.” He took out two more glasses and poured clear liquid. “Dr. Banner, do you drink? Cabo Uno?”

Accepting the glass, Bruce sipped the potent liquor. “I enjoy a good shot of Partida now and then.”

“Ah, yes, you spent time here. Good work at the clinic; too many girls getting pregnant, boys shirking their responsibilities.” He held out a glass to Clint; without hesitation, Clint took it and sipped.  If it was drugged, Bruce would get him out of here.  No, Ochoa wanted to have a verbal go at Clint first, and it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it on some level.

When Clint didn’t rise to the bait, Ochoa eased down into a chair where he could face them both. “Rogero had such promise as a child. Yes, he tore the wings off of flies and was a bully. Still, in our line of work, that can be a useful skill. But he became a liability when he lost control of himself.”

“So killing a few girls, as long as he didn’t draw attention, would be okay?” Clint asked. He couldn’t help remembering Angela’s fear and the photos of the dead.

“You may not believe this, but I am an old fashioned man. Families, children, innocents should be off limits if at all possible. A man does not need to hit a woman to prove he is masculine.” There was the steel that kept this man on top of a cocaine empire.

“Did you know Julio was the one carving the bodies?” Bruce asked. He’d come to stand behind Clint, a clear signal of protection.

“That one? He was always wrong. Started with his mother. I was grieving for my Maria … cancer, far too young … and I didn’t do due diligence. She told me what I wanted to hear and took care of me; others warned me, but I thought I knew better.” He swirled his glass and took a long drink. “I don’t know exactly what she was, but she wasn’t human. I warned Rogero about his brother, but why would he listen to his father when Julio idolized him?” 

“Julio was more than just wrong; he was mixed up with some seriously dangerous people,” Clint said, wondering just how much Ochoa was aware of his son’s activities. In the very large file on Ochoa that SHIELD kept up-to-date, the man was a brutal and ruthless criminal, but he wasn’t a world domination type of villain. Getting involved with Mab wasn’t up his alley.

“The mutant, Constance … she is dead I assume or you would not be alive … she was the start of this latest obsession of his. Enrique Lehder was already poised to shut Julio down; we don’t bring anyone else in on the operation without the families’ consent.  Getting involved with groups like HYDRA and those others brought the Avengers down on his head. Not a way to run a successful business.”

“So, what are you saying? That I did you a favor?” Clint leaned forward and stared the man down. He didn’t believe that for a second.

“No.” Ochoa’s gaze grew cold. “I would kill you right now, Hulk or no Hulk, for what you’ve taken from me. But you and I have a little girl to think about now.  She is my granddaughter as much as yours and I need you alive to make sure she has a life ahead of her.”

“I agree. We both need to give her a chance, find her a place to grow up as normal as possible. I have the resources to …” Clint began.

“You think hiding her away the best? I have enemies who will track her down no matter how deep you bury her in a small town in some remote location.  They already know that your Agent Coulson is working on a list and they’ll have it in their hands within the hour he compiles it. You think we don’t have people on the inside?” Ochoa smile was as sharp as a shark. “They’ll come for her before you can get there, slaughter the whole family and anyone who gets in their way. No, the only answer is to hide her in plain sight. With you.”

Bruce laid a hand on Clint’s shoulder when he would have come up off the couch, urging him to stay calm. “You have no idea who my enemies are and what they’re capable of,” Clint said, drawing on Bruce’s offered calm.

“I know that she is a mutant, at the very least, if not more. When her abilities manifest, she’s going to need support and training with someone like Charles Xavier.  She’ll need protection from all those who would use her or hurt her; the big green one that shares Dr. Banner’s body will be much more effective than a normal human, no matter how well trained and vigilant they are.  That’s not to mention the Black Widow. Just her name alone strikes fear in my world.” Ochoa levered himself up to stand.

His head spinning, Clint wasn’t sure how to react. He thought Ochoa would to want to keep the baby, had expected him to fight the plan to find adoptive parents for that reason. The squeeze of Bruce’s hand shared his confusion, but the Big Guy was doing a happy dance in Clint’s head. He was onboard with this new path. For a moment, the image of Becca joined the Hulk, the two of them sashaying around their apartment.

“You owe me two sons, and I always collect on my debts,” Ochoa declared, deadly serious. “I want my granddaughter to have all the advantages you can give her. And to not be part of this life.”

“Everyone will know.  The media will jump on the story,” Bruce said.

“I have the best PR firm in New York on speed dial. It will be fairly easy to sell the story that she’s the daughter of one of the murdered women. Money will ensure everyone here tells the same tale and no one who works for me will ever say anything different,” Ochoa promised. 

“Will you not lose face if you let me walk away?” Clint knew the way this world worked.

“Why? You are Clint Barton, Hawkeye and an Avenger, not Ronin, if I say so.  There are seven different occasions when you and Ronin were operating in different parts of the world at the same time. Ronin killed Rogero; you came to stop the murders and found Julio.” Ochoa shrugged as if indifferent, but Clint could see that the old man was saddened by the statement.  “What is it to me if you decide to play Hollywood star and adopt a child from Columbia?”

“We’ll take good care of her,” Bruce said as much to Clint as the other man. “She’ll want for nothing; the biggest problem will be keeping her from being spoiled.”

“I believe this or I would not let her go.” He suddenly seemed very frail, leaning against the bar as his shoulders slumped. “She will be provided for in my estate; you will not deny her this. And her name …”

“Angela Rebecca.” Clint spoke with surety. “For her grandmothers.” He felt Bruce start, but didn’t look around.

“It is a good name; my mother was Angela,” Ochoa said softly. “She had a gift of sensing the truth. I could never lie to her. She was the one warned me of Julio’s mother.” He shook his head ruefully. “Bah, I am too old for this. Take the child, raise her, protect her as I should have done with Rogero and Julio. Maybe I could have made a difference.”

As if summoned, two thick set men in perfectly tailored suits stepped through the doorway and held it open for them. Ochoa turned to the window, clearly dismissing Clint and Bruce. The fading sun highlighted his wrinkles, a roadmap of the years passed and the decisions made. Regret colored his washed out blue eyes as he stared out over the land paid for by sweat and blood.

“Dr. Banner.” He spoke before they reached the door; Bruce turned, fingers brushing Clint’s shoulder as he went back. Ochoa patted Bruce’s arm, sliding his hand down as he did. “Thank you for the work you’ve done. Too many ignore the poverty here.”

“Children are the innocents,” Bruce said. “Unfortunately it’s adults like you who are the monsters.”

Warm hand touched the small of Clint’s back as Bruce joined him, leaving the old man behind. They walked out as easily as they’d walked in, leaving the compound in the Subaru.  Caught up in his own thoughts, Clint didn’t argue when Bruce took the wheel or listened as he called Phil. His brain was running in circles, worrying the problem over and over, jumping through the hows and whys. Everything seemed to have been planned from the very beginning, since Las Vegas and probably before to get all the ducks in a row for Mab and company’s crossing into this world. Even with an insider in SHIELD and Stark Industries, no one had all the pieces of the puzzle.  Someone had to know about Clint being Ronin; wasn’t impossible, nothing was ever completely buried, but it would take digging and serious amounts of cash to get that piece of information.  Rogero Ochoa’s death was a smaller piece, and Ronin’s one night stand with Angela was a tiny needle that required a lot of shifting to get to.

The thing was, Clint had been careful.  Not that he’d been perfect, but early on he’d realized the danger of having unprotected sex with anyone, male or female. He’d been young and stupid with that first guy and thank god he’d come out clean. Angela had been during a job, and there were a few of those he needed to check up on now. The worst – he shoved the door to that hallway firmly closed – were the times that weren’t his choice.  There were more of those than anyone should have in their lives, but that was part of the job, or at least he told himself that. He’d rather think of Bruce, the most trusting relationship he’d ever had. So the odds of Clint having a kid were pretty small to begin with, much less that someone could track that one child down.

Becca -- and yeah he should not let himself call her that, but he couldn’t seem to help it -- was one in a million. A grandmother who could foresaw her future. A clueless grandfather who never missed. Another grandfather who was one of the top ten world’s most wanted criminal. A terrified half-alien/half mutant psycho for a father …

“Shit, that’s it.” He slapped the dashboard and turned to Bruce only to notice they were pulling to a stop in a cobblestone plaza of a small town. Shifting into park, Bruce took out the key and looked at him.

“What’s ‘it’?” Calm as always, Bruce had been waiting for Clint to process it all.

“Where are we?’ he asked, distracted. The building just beyond the front bumper was two story white adobe with rounded archways leading into a simple cantina. Tables spilled out onto the veranda that wrapped around the side; Clint could see right through the bar, out onto a wide green expanse of mountain meadow. Farther below, the last of the sun glinted off a crystal blue lake.

“Gruatavita. That’s the lake that gave birth to the legend of El Dorado,” Bruce answered as he opened the door and got out of the car; Clint slid out his side. “Beautiful, isn’t it? The town’s pretty crowded in tourist season, but we’ve missed that, so I bet they have a room available in the hotel here. The restaurant was good last time I came through.”

“Room? Food? Wait … what?” Clint was confused, but he followed Bruce into the bar, sitting down at a table out on the patio when the waitress waved them to take their pick of the empties.

“We need to talk, and there’s no privacy back at the clinic. Phil’s got things covered until the morning.” Bruce took the menu and ordered them Monserrate Roja, a local beer. Rather than fight it, which would have been his first response a few years ago, Clint went along. After the first sip of the dark, hops-laden beer, Clint felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders, and he let Bruce order ajiaco santafereño, a potato soup served with chicken and capers, and the costillitas de cerdo for them both. “So what did you realize?” Bruce asked once the waitress left again.

“Julio’s not her father.”

“What?” Bruce said back, poleaxed, his mouth working on other words but nothing coming out.

“Julio’s mother isn’t human. He’s half-alien. Tony’s had JARVIS run all sorts of tests and Xavier’s been in Becca’s head and nothing. No alien DNA.” Not that the fact negated what Julio had done to Margarita and Clint took a moment to think of the Hulk ripping that little bastard apart with satisfied glee.

“Wouldn’t he have noticed … no, he’d have had to do an aminocentosis to get the baby’s DNA and why not just wait until she was born when there’d be less danger.” Bruce was thinking it through now himself. “But who else could the father be? Someone with access to the compound and to her.”

“Worried enough to contact SHIELD and feed them information. Not that much older, willing to risk his life by talking.” Clint had made that connection in the car. The gardener’s son, off to his first year in school in the US, just 17-years-old. “I’ll call Tasha, have her visit the kid up, see if he’s serious about Margarita. If she feels the same, he might be the best thing for her right now.”

“Clint.” Bruce put his hand on Clint’s arm, a gesture of comfort.

“Natasha got her out. She was on Xavier’s plane when he left.” Clint patted Bruce’s hand. “You didn’t really think Nat left her behind, did you?”

A shadow left Bruce’s face and the side of his mouth turned up in a real smile. “I didn’t want to think it, but that explosion was nasty and the Other Guy was distracted. I’m glad for you.”

“Yeah, well, she wants nothing to do with me and who can blame her. Charles says he’ll get through to her, but right now she’s turning her back on me and the baby. I have no idea if that includes the boyfriend too. Damn it, this just gets more and more complicated.” The soup arrived and the smell made Clint’s stomach rumble.  He took a spoonful of the creamy liquid with a big chunk of chicken. The food calmed him even more.  “Is this how you feel all the time? I could eat a horse. But some pork ribs will do.”

“Side effect of the metabolic changes, yeah,” Bruce agreed. “I think once your system is clear of the drugs that should go away.”

“Not complaining. Thanks, by the way. I wouldn’t be here if the Big Guy hadn’t shared. But you know that.” Clint snagged a piece of the cornbread the waitress had left with the soup. “Anyway, I don’t think Ochoa knows either, and I’m not sure I buy what he’s trying to sell me.”

“I think he’s an old man who’s lost everything and has one last hope for a legacy.” One of things Clint admired about Bruce was the way he could see things so clearly sometimes without a lens of hate or anger. He left that to the Big Guy.

“Until he changes his mind and wants her back.” Clint couldn’t see a happy ending , too many variables to account for, or maybe it was just his own bone deep cynicism. 

“He gave me this as we were leaving.” Bruce passed a slip of paper over to Clint. On it were three names; the first two he didn’t recognize, but he knew the last one.

“That’s Rich from HR. When I filed the paperwork naming you my beneficiary and power of attorney, he’s the one who …”  Clint stopped and looked at Bruce, understanding dawning. “These are the moles. Want to bet at least one of the others works for SI? Damn. Ochoa’s burning some bridges here.”

“To protect Becca. Yeah, that’s the way I see it.”  The bartender came around lighting the torches and candles on the tables; between the glow of the lights from inside, the candles and the slow rising waning moon, the mood changed from late diners to couples having a drink. Their pork ribs came and Clint tucked in to the tender meat with a slightly spicy sauce.  For a few minutes, neither of them spoke as they ate.

“How can I ask you to do this?” Clint finally voiced his fear. “Take her in, care for her, when we could lose her at any minute? God, the Big Guy’s already attached; if her mother decides she wants her, will he ever be able to let her go?”

Bruce sat back and finished off his beer before he answered. “When I was younger, I promised myself I’d never have kids; it was just too big of a risk because children of abusers are more likely to become abusers themselves.”

Clint knew that sentiment well, but he didn’t interrupt, just let Bruce continue.

“When the accident happened, the choice was taken away from me. For years I convinced myself it was for the best; there were plenty of children in the world who needed help. I could be happy with them as surrogates.” His eyes trained on Clint, Bruce was at his most serious. “I put it away, the longings when I’d see a man holding a baby girl or a father playing ball with his son. I didn’t deserve it anyway; always running, Ross on my tail, the destruction in my wake. Then Natasha showed up in that hut in India, I moved into Tony’s tower, the Hulk was a hero, and you were there too.  Hell, Clint, when you showed me that picture of Margarita, I couldn’t stop from thinking about her, wondering what it would be like to have a teenager around.”

“Bruce, you don’t have to …” Clint brushed his thumb along the back of Bruce’s hand.

“First time I saw Becca in one of your dreams, it was like she slotted right into my heart. Rebecca, for my mother, right?” Bruce waited until Clint nodded. “It occurred to me, then, that all of this isn’t about us. She’s the epicenter. Angela Rebecca Barton. Her mother knew how important she was going to be and made sure she was born. The Tesseract took her form as she was becoming human. A Trickster or an Archangel gave us a magical bond that protects us all from Mab and her minions. Even Fisk and his nannites, advancing our abilities, made the connection stronger and prepared us. As if we were meant to have her in our lives.”

“Are you using the Gandalf argument on me?” Clint grinned; this was the second _Lord of the Rings_ reference Bruce had made. Watching the extended editions in a marathon over the holidays had made an impression. “It’s not the time we’ve been given but what we do with it?”

“If it fits, why not?” Bruce leaned onto his elbows, resting his chin on his hand. “Ochoa isn’t wrong. She’s the safest with us; we have the resources to handle her development.  And we can take care of whatever is thrown our way.”

“Le gustaria postre, senors?” The waitress had a tray with four desserts samples as she stopped.

“No, gracias,” Bruce answered, his Spanish flawless from years living abroad. He complimented the food and asked for the bill. She nodded and fished the paper out of her pocket, juggling the tray like an expert.

“You want to do this. Take her home, raise her.” Clint said once she’d left again. “How are we going to manage that? We’re gone all the time and busy when we are home. There’ll be night time feedings and diapers and naps and …”

“They’re not babies forever you know,” Bruce smiled, and Clint knew he was lost. Good God, he was going to do this. “And we won’t be doing it alone. Steve and Thor and Natasha, all the others will be there for us. Maybe Phil will quit SHIELD and become our full-time nanny.”

“Phil Coulson, Supernanny. He’ll probably do it.” Clint pushed his plate away and sipped the last of his second beer as Bruce put enough pesos on the table. “Oh God. Tony.”

“Best uncle a girl could have.”  Bruce caught Clint’s hand and held it fast. “Come on, let’s go get a room then maybe take a walk. It’s going to be okay.”

The manager was happy to offer up a key; the small room had a double bed with mosquito netting, a set of French doors that opened out onto a small balcony overlooking the lake below. It wasn’t the Ritz or the kind of places Tony stayed in, but it was on the quiet end of the hotel and had at least four exit routes Clint could map out quickly, more if he put his mind to it. Bruce had packed some go bags in the car in case returning to Bogota wasn’t an option; they carried them up and dropped them in the corner.  

“Neither of us are our fathers, Clint.” That was all Bruce had to say to cut right to the heart of the matter. “We’ll probably go the opposite direction and have to force ourselves to set rules.”

“I believe in bedtimes, just so you know. Bath, book, lights out, no getting up for drinks of water or sleeping in our bed. Going to be impossible to find time to have sex without a toddler wandering in at all hours.” He gave up the fight; it never really was one to begin with. His heart was going to break either way he went. Why not take the time he’d been given and make it the best he could?

“Okay. Unless she has a nightmare … or is scared … or sick …” Bruce tugged Clint towards him, pulling him into his arms. “Or for special occasions like holidays or birthdays. Then she can stay up late. Or if you’re on your way home from a mission. She can wait with me then.”

“No unsupervised time in the lab with Tony. Period.” Clint slid his hands down Bruce’s back, hooking onto his belt loops to snug their hips together. “Non-negotiable.”

“Of course. We’ll get JARVIS to add a protocol for that situation; he has to notify someone who is a designated pinch hitter. Me, if I’m around. Carol, Hank, Janet, Jane. Steve. Probably not Thor.” Bruce curled a hand around one of Clint’s bicep and the other along the line of his jaw, fingers burrowing into the longish strands of hair hanging over Clint’s ear.

“We’ll need rules about weapons and appropriate ages. No sharp knives before, what do you think, four, five?” He couldn’t stop the stupid happy smile that was spreading across his face, the one mirrored in Bruce’s eyes. “Nat will want to go with two, but I’m going to hold the line on that. Her own bow? I think they make child size ones for toddlers. If not, we’ll get Tony to build one.”

“Try and stop him.” Bruce’s face lightened and an eyebrow quirked up. “You do realize this is the last chance we have for a night alone for the foreseeable future? And you want to argue about when to give Becca arrows?”

Clint shamelessly ground his hips against Bruce’s, feeling the instant response of their hardening cocks. “It’s very important to establish expectations to avoid arguments later on. Or so my last shrink like to say.”

“Ummmm,” Bruce hummed, ducking his head and sucking the lobe of Clint’s ear into his mouth, making Clint arch his back in pleasure. “I expect to be inside of you very shortly. Any argument?”

“Hell no.”

They should talk more, make plans, think this through. But Bruce was tugging his belt free, unbuttoning his fly and reaching inside, his fingers brushing the head of Clint’s cock, and there was no more thinking. So much had happened since they’d share a bed even if it had been only a few short days, less than a week since the aborted attempt to get married.  The touch of familiar skin under Clint’s palms was reassuring, the muscles flexing as Bruce moved a reminder that they were both alive, and Clint needed that right now. They shed their clothes, Clint flicking off the light, and Bruce slipping the supplies from a pocket of the duffle as they made their way to the bed. Bruce lay Clint out on his back and hovered over him, intent on kissing all his favorite spots while he slicked up their cocks so they glided across each other with ease.  His long fingers circled and traced Clint’s chest, the muscles of his arms, the lines of his abs with the same leisurely pace of the slow stroke of Bruce’s hips.  Doubt fell away, and Clint focused on the sensations; he let his eyes drift closed, his energy waning, and he floated there, Bruce’s whispered endearments dropping onto his skin. Cracking his eyes open, he ran his hands down Bruce’s sides, back up to his nipples, tweaking each sensitive nub and earning a flash of desire in the brown depths.

When the friction got to be too much, Clint flipped Bruce despite the twinge in his knee, making them both laugh. Then he explored with his mouth as he circled his hand around the thick cock jutting up from Bruce’s dark wiry hair and lazily pulled a few times. Alternating tracing the head with his fingers and pumping with his fist, he worked Bruce towards the edge, ignoring his own ache.  Following the line of Bruce’s throat up to his chin with kisses, Clint added a twist of his wrist and felt the first drops with his fingers as Bruce started to come.

“That’s it Doc, let me do it for you. Remind you I’m here, that you didn’t lose me. Going to let you fill me up when you’re ready, you and the Big Guy, all of us together. Going to make me cry out your name and promise to be yours.” Clint watched the emotions that crossed that expressive face, the way Bruce bit down on his bottom lip to keep quiet, and how the crinkles at the corner of his eyes deepened as he squeezed them shut and arched up as he climaxed. “God, you’re gorgeous when you come, Doc.”

“Jesus, Clint,” Bruce chuckled, catching Clint’s face with his hands and bringing close enough to kiss. “You’re still hard as a rock.”

“Ummm,” Clint murmured as their lips brushed together. “Pain meds I think, making me a little slower than usual. Might get to fuck me twice if you play your cards right. I know how you like that.”

Kissing seemed the most natural thing to do right at that moment; tongues slowly tracing the contours of each other’s mouths, lips nipping lightly then parting and sinking deep.  Hands wandered as Clint eased down onto one elbow and tangled his leg between Bruce’s, rubbing his erection against Bruce’s thigh with slow undulations of his hips. Bruce’s arm slipped under Clint so both his hands could curl around Clint’s ass and tug him forward. One slick finger woven between Clint’s cheeks and circled before pushing in up to the knuckle. Clenching his muscles and pushing back into Bruce’s hands, Clint broke the kiss and grinned down at his lover. Reaching out, he found the bottle and one-handedly squeezed some lube onto Bruce’s chest; running his fingers through the gel, he bypassed Bruce’s twitching cock, already flushing with renewed energy. Instead, one finger breached Bruce, matching his movements.

“Want to play, do you?” Bruce asked.

“Got the time.” Clint eased another finger in, and Bruce did the same.

“You set the pace,” Bruce said and Clint did, matching his fingers to the circles of his hips, returning to kissing at the same time. He wanted faster, always wanted more with Bruce, but this was good, unhurried in the moonlight, riding the burn but not forcing it.

“Kind of nice,” Clint groaned as Bruce twisted and hit the right spot to send little shoots of pleasure up his spine. “Both at the same time.”

Bruce chuckled. “Well, now that you mention it, there are ways to make that happen. Toys.”

“Ah.” Clint held his breath for a second as the head of his cock dragged along the hairy skin of Bruce’s thigh just as Bruce’s fingers hit the spot again. “What did you have … in mind?”

“Fucking you open then putting it in to keep you that way, full all day.” Even as he said it, Bruce’s eyelids sagged, heavy with desire at the thought. “You sitting in a meeting somewhere or watching movies with everyone, me knowing that I’m going to pull it out later and you’ll be all loose and messy.” His cock hardened at his words, his breathing speeding up.

“And here I was thinking of filling you up with one and using the remote control to hit my target while you fuck me.” And that image was almost too much; Clint rolled onto his back and gasped in a deep breath to keep from shooting off right then.

“Someone’s got a little kink?” Bruce raised up on his elbows. “We’ll have to investigate that later. Right now, I’ve got other plans.”

Clint expected Bruce to roll on top of him, but he sat up and pulled Clint with him, turning him around to face the wall and urging him on his knees. Wrapping his hands around the curve of the headboard, Clint spread his knees apart and leaned forward as Bruce curled an arm around Clint’s waist and pushed up into him. They groaned at the same time, Clint clenching his fists on the cool metal.

“Can you handle both of us?” Bruce whispered against the skin of his neck.

Clint dropped his head back onto Bruce’s shoulder before he replied. “Always.”

As Bruce’s skin changed to green, Clint could felt Bruce’s cock growing bigger, spreading him wider. He moaned and moved, needing to stretch more; Bruce took the hint and began to stroke in and out. Clint’s world reduced to each thrust and the ragged breathing that was keeping his own climax at bay. Soon, they were sweating, and Clint’s leg was trembling from the weight of staying upright. The rhythm of plunge and retreat made the headboard bang against the wall, springs of the old bed creaking. Clint cursed under his breath each time Bruce slammed into his prostate, and he saw white spots before his eyes.

“I need … I have to … Oh, God, Bruce.” Clint was going to come just from the relentless spikes of pleasure.  Then one of Bruce’s hands circled his cock and all it took was two slides of the green fist and Clint was coming. He shook with the intensity of his orgasm, closing he eyes and slumping back onto Bruce’s strength.

“Got you,” Bruce groaned as he thrust once, twice and then poured into Clint, holding them both up with one hand.  “All mine.”

When Clint blinked and came back into his body, they were sprawled on the small bed, Bruce on the bottom and Clint on top, ass in the air, their heads near the footboard.  “Give me ten before round two and I’ll be ready.”

Bruce snorted. “You were almost dead a few days ago. I’m thinking a few hours of sleep might be in order.”

“No, no, I’m good,” Clint patted Bruce’s calf where his hand had fallen when they slumped down.  Then he yawned, ruining his bravado. “Okay, maybe a nap.”

“Cupid sleep.” The Hulk picked him up and turned them around, climbing back into bed first and situating Clint half on-top of him and half-curled by his side. Clint had to admit that sounded good. Bruce’s body put out warmth and Clint’s leg and arm were aching from the exertion. He’d close his eyes for a bit, comfortable with the covers up to his waist.

He was in that place right before losing consciousness but still half-aware when he felt the little body curl up on Bruce’s chest.  She sighed and the Big Guy’s hand cupped her small form, wrapped in her white and pink blanket and pink knitted hat. Covering Bruce’s hand with his own, Clint went to sleep.

“A lovely family.”

Herne was sitting on a chair on the balcony, looking through the open doors. Clint could see the two of them tangled together, eyes closed, chests rising and falling evenly. Then they were in their apartment in the Tower, asleep in their own bed, a tiny baby on Bruce’s chest, her face scrunched as if she was dreaming. In another heartbeat, they were in the king-sized bed, the older Becca snuggled up between the two of them, her Sesame Street pajamas covered in Elmo.

“I thought once the drugs were out of my system you lot were gone.” Clint sat down beside him and willed up a glass of whiskey to sip.

“You might be protected from being a vessel, but you and I have a connection.  We can speak from time to time. Like now, when your brain is astral projecting … you did know you do that? Quite often from what I can tell.” He lost the antlers and feathers, becoming a man with brown hair and brown eyes, broad across the chest, in a leather jerkin and leather pants.

“Astral projection. Great. Thanks, Tessa,” Clint complained. “So, wait, can the Winter Knight show up too?”

“Oh, no, he’ll not be doing any traveling anytime soon. All the Queen’s horses, and all the Queen’s men, to use your parlance. Gods, but your mind if filled with such wonderful things.” He drank from his own glass, stared at the amber liquid then drank again. “This is better than the Mead of Titania’s court, but don’t tell her that.”

“Only the best in my own private universe.” Clint settled into the hard metal chair which was also a comfy chair in the two different bedrooms. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“You’ve been reading up on us, I see,” he chuckled. It was true. Since Morden’s first appearance back in New York, Clint had been researching myth and folklore. Being a good host was important; establish that this was his space and that the faerie was a guest. “And I thank you for the hospitality.  I wanted to check up on you and see how things are going.”

“You enjoy rubbernecking and watching the fight. A hunter, after all, can’t resist good sport,” Clint translated.

“And you are worthy opponents indeed. It would not be nearly as much fun if Mab easily gained this world. No, I do enjoy a rousing fight, especially one where the final outcome is in question.”

“So you think we’ve got a shot to win this thing? And when we’re exhausted but victorious, you can step in and take us with less resistance? Or are you going with the-enemy-of-my-enemy routine, help us take out Mab and then turn on us?”  Clint could see any of those being the right answer.

“There’d have to be something in it for me if I helped you.” Herne shot back. Clint eyed him, but the fae had a perfect poker face.

“No offers. I know how that works. No promises, either.” That was the number one thing he’d read; never enter into a bargain with one of these guys. They were the original lawyers when it came to exact language.  “And dominion over the Earth is not in my power to give.”

“Not all of us want to rule; I have fond memories of my time here.  Harry and I had some good times; the man could almost outdrink me.” Herne smiled at the thought. “Even after he married Ellie – which I warned him about – he was still the best to have at your side in a fight.”

“Harry and Ellie?” Clint asked, too curious not to.

“Henry the Second and Eleanor of Aquitaine.” Bruce put his hands on Clint’s shoulders, standing behind him. “I take it this is Herne?”

“Nice to meet such a great warrior. No, really,” he said when Bruce looked skeptical. “I’d love to have you join my hunt.”

“As hunters or the hunted?” Bruce asked.

Herne laughed. “Either would be a delight. Would be a true trophy to run the Green One to ground.”

“Hulk strongest; smash Horned Man.” In his biggest form, the Hulk towered over both of them, and his growled reverberated. On the bed, Bruce shifted uneasily before calming.

“One day we shall settle that question, my large friend, but not tonight,” Herne said. “My time is limited to this twilight before The Hawk goes deeper into sleep.”

“You were here in the 12th Century. So what happened? Why did you leave?” Clint had been running over the conversation and realized that Herne wanted to tell them something but faeries never offered information directly. It was all about asking the right questions. Supposedly, they couldn’t lie, but Clint wasn’t so sure of that. Herne’s smile of approval showed he’d guessed correctly.

“Once there were many doors between our plane and yours. We merely needed to step through in physical forms similar to yours. Humans often stumbled through them into ours,” Herne began as if telling a story.

“Let me guess, they tended to be under hills or in the middle of circles of mushrooms?” Clint said. Herne arched his eyebrow and gave him a look that clearly said to not interrupt.

“Then they were all shut by an outside force. Now our only connection is through those who can touch other planes. We must use their physical nature to act in this world.” He finished and waited for their response.

“Wormholes, maybe,” Bruce mused. “Any number of events could shut them down from a star going supernova to a change in solar radiation. We’ve long theorized that travel was possible if we could just solve the problem of size.”

“Yeah, Stargate, walk in one end, come out across the universe, got it, T’ealc.” He patted Bruce’s hand. “But inhabiting our bodies isn’t enough, is it? No, Mab wants to bring everyone along, have her playground back like the old days and she’ll need the doors open to do that … Slip on a human suit and go see what happened. That’s what they’ll be doing. Find the doors on our end and blow them off their hinges.”

“What will she do when she gets here? What’s the end game?” Bruce asked.

“Depends on the Fae. We’re not all the same,” Herne answered.  “Mab will wish to have followers, to be revered as in olden times, and her methods are … cold. She is Winter, after all.”

“And you? What would you do?” Clint pressed.

“I would collect great warriors like yourselves and hunt.” His smile revealed a row of sharp, pointed teeth, reminding Clint that Herne was not human despite his form. “There would be quests of the like this world hasn’t seen since Arthur.”

Something inside Clint responded to that, the part of him that was Hawkeye and Ronin, that knew the thrill of the hunt, the tense pleasure of a target in his sights, and the ecstasy of a perfect shot. Behind him, Bruce trembled, and the Hulk growled, low in his throat. Oh yes, there would be those who would join Herne without question or care.

“That’s how you’d do it if you wanted the doors open. Find heroes, convince him to work with you and make it a challenge of skill and strength. We’d fall over ourselves to be the one who succeeded.” Clint was glad it was Mab they were up against for the first time; Herne’s plan would work all too well.

“Who’s to say that hasn’t been the idea all along?” Herne replied.

“You’re playing a long game.” Clint glanced over at the baby cuddled in the Hulk’s hands as they slept. “Waiting for someone stronger, more powerful.”

“Papa? Daddy?” The little voice was half-whisper, half-yawn. She rubbed her eyes and stood in the doorway, her hair all askew, falling out of her long braid. “It’s dark and I’m scared.”

“It’s okay, baby,” Clint held out his hands, and she lifted her arms to be picked up.  “This is just a dream. You’re safe and sound, fast asleep.”

“I don’t like him.” She winkled her nose in Herne’s direction. “He’s not a nice man.”

“Hulk protect.” Big green arms came around Clint, hugging both of them close. “Horned Man go away.”

Clint blinked his eyes in the dim light. His head was on Bruce’s green shoulder, a comforting hand on the small of his back. Scanning the room, he saw the open doors to the balcony, curtains moving in the mountain breeze. He distinctly remembered them being closed earlier. Pushing up, he padded over and shut them, latching them securely before crawling back in bed and tugging the covers all the way up.

“Hulk strongest of all,” the Big Guy muttered as rolled over and spooned up behind Clint.

“Amen to that,” Clint agreed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've got kids and I can promise you that sexy times do not end just because a baby enters your life. I'm looking forward to writing Clint & Bruce with Becca. Real grown ups now! :)


	10. Journey to the Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team pulls together as Clint and Bruce's family grows. And that's really what it's all about ... family, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of part two of this series. The third and final installment will be coming shortly and tie up a lot of the plot threads.

**THEN**

“Whose night is it to pick?” Tony asked, swinging over into his favorite seat in the big comfy couch. “How about an old Hope/Crosby pic? _Road to Singapore_?”

He hadn’t stopped since they’d returned to the Tower, poking at both Clint and Bruce and their budding relationship. Bruce had taken it all with good grace and a calm façade; Clint had come prepared tonight, knowing Tony was wound tight because of Von Doom’s neural inhibitor that he’d used on Bruce. He took out the little plastic nerf bow and shot a sucker arrow right between Tony’s eyes.

“Hey!” Tony popped the bright red arrow off and tossed it back Clint’s way. “If you prefer _Brokeback_ _Mountain_ , that’s fine.”

“Tony,” Pepper said, climbing over him to settle in with her big bowl of popcorn that wouldn’t last very long. “It’s my night and I want to watch that funny movie about weddings, the one with all the women. It’s been a long day and a laugh is just what I need.”

“ _Bridesmaids_?” Natasha swung over the back of the couch, not bothering with the steps. She swiped Clint’s bowl from where he’d sat it down to take the shot at Tony. “Excellent choice, but I think it’s still in theaters.”

“Not a problem. I’ve got connections and I happen to have a line on the potential Oscar nominees,” Tony gloated, his attention on Pepper, just as she’d planned. “JARVIS, queue it up for us, would you?”

“Hey!” Clint’s hand shot out for his bowl, but Natasha deftly deflected him. Bruce reached another full bowl over the back of the couch and then climbed in; he plopped down in the corner, nudging Clint so he could rest his arm along the back of the cushions, draping the other one over Clint’s shoulders. There was no reason to hide their relationship, not after they’d practically had a porno moment in Singapore and then again in the warehouse.

“What are we watching?” Steve asked, coming in a few minutes late.

“A nice wholesome comedy about weddings,” Tony answered, scooting over to make room despite plenty of space on the other side where Thor usually sat. Steve paused, and then sat down next to Tony; he aimed a wink at Clint when Tony was busy on his phone. “And we’ve even managed to keep Bruce and Clint clothed for the evening to protect your modesty.”

Steve did blush at that, but Clint knew it wasn’t because of finding them naked when Monica Rappacini had them. It was because he’d been there when Clint had applied some pretty loud fuck therapy to keep the Hulk at bay.  One of the things Clint learned was that Steve wasn’t the virginal innocent people thought; still, throwing Bruce to the floor right in front of him was a little much. Good thing Steve understood the need for the tactic.

“I can handle a little nudity,” Steve replied; he stretched over Tony’s lap and Pepper very helpfully tilted the bowl his way, smacking Tony’s hand when he tried to get some popcorn. “I’ve watched _True Blood_ , you know.”

“What? When? And why was I not invited to the party?” Tony demanded.

“Can we start the movie? Or are you going to complain some more?” Clint enjoyed returning fire. This was getting to be easy, the back-and-forth, the friendly banter, the way Bruce’s body was warm against his. The conversation didn’t stop even as the movie played, and they jockeyed for popcorn, shared drinks, and watched Tony do everything in his power to touch Steve accidentally. Long fingers wound around Clint’s about halfway through, and he dropped his head back onto Bruce’s arm, his crazy day catching up to him despite the laughter around him.

“Going to sleep on me?” Bruce whispered.

“Maybe.”  Clint wiggled into a more comfortable position and hooked his foot over Bruce’s leg.

“Okay.” Arms pulled tight and Clint turned a little as Natasha and Pepper laughed out loud.

As he dozed off, he wondered when things had changed, when he’d inherited a family he hadn’t expected and a lover who not only put up with his crazy life, but understood him on some level that no one ever had. It was all too good, too much like a home … and good things never seemed to end well for Clint Barton.

**NOW – Columbia and New York City**

“Look, Clint, I know this is difficult, but …”

Tony had cornered him almost as soon as they returned, determined to have his say about the situation. Despite telling him they’d called a meeting to explain things, Tony kept stepping in front of Clint, angling to have a private conversation. Finally, Clint just let him.

“Tony, you don’t know shit about this, okay? Far as you know you don’t have any kids.” Clint wanted to get back to Bruce, to the plans that needed to be put into place. But he knew Tony well enough to ride this out.

“I’m not one to talk, that’s for damn sure. But we both understand what it’s like, growing up always wondering, wanting an explanation. Being the smartest kid in the room, the best shot. You really going to put her in that situation? She’s never going to be like the others.” Tony was serious, all joking gone; this, Clint thought, was the real Tony, the one who cared more than he’d ever admit about his dysfunctional handpicked family.

“Are you comparing foster care and orphanages to boarding school? ‘Cause last time I looked, old man Irwin’s house was hell and gone from Cartagena.” He put some humor in his voice, teasing Stark just a little.

“Okay, Joan Wilder, one day we’re going to compare horror stories , but right now, there’s a baby who’s just a few days old who needs her grandpa to step up to the plate.” Tony put a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “You’re not your father. Plus you’ve got the world’s biggest green playmate for the kid.”

“Tony …” Clint began, but Tony talked over him.

“We’ve got all the resources to take care of her. Thor will terrify her potential boyfriends … or girlfriends as the case may be. Natasha will teach her to kick any bully’s ass. Steve will be the best uncle ever. Coulson? One word. Supernanny.” Tony paused to draw a breath and Clint jumped in.

“We’ve decided to keep her,” he said, cutting Tony off at the pass. “That’s what the meeting’s about.”

“Oh. Well. Yeah. That’s … hell, I was doing a good job of convincing you though. Didn’t even get to the fact Pep’s already put her on the waiting list for the best pre-school in New York City, and I’ve got alumni pull at MIT. Plus, I think Pepper’s started shopping. Just a warning. If there’s one thing Pepper does better than corporate management, it’s buying expensive things with my money.”

Sad thing was that Tony wasn’t lying. Clint knew that there’d be a whole room outfitted for Becca before the jet could land at LaGuardia if they let it happen. “Moderation, Tony. Remember the Hulk chair?”

“Hey, you like that chair now. I have it on good authority that Jolly Green loves it.” Tony stepped away and followed as Clint headed into the room where everyone else was gathered. “So, I was right after all.”

“Fine, you can buy a few things, but only if Bruce and Pepper agree.”

Clint knew he’d made a mistake when Tony grinned and said, “Done.”

It didn’t surprise Clint that there were no objections to the change in plans. Thor thumped him on the back, Steve smiled, and Natasha sat quietly, but he could see the approval in her eyes. Phil just pulled the adoption paperwork from his binder, already filled in, and slid it over for Clint to sign; there was a second line ready for Bruce’s name as well. Leaving was all too easy after that. Tony’s jet was fueled and waiting, Coulson had already dealt with the local government (Stark Industries lawyers were damn good, but Phil was even better),  and there was nothing stopping them from going wheels up except the simple logistics of moving them all to the airport with what Clint thought was an inordinately large amount of supplies. They’d make plans while still in the air, decide what to tell Fury and the media when a baby suddenly appeared in StarkTower. 

She was awake and hungry when Clint buckled in his seat, and he took her gingerly, holding her in the crook of his arm as Steve sat next to him and talked him through the feeding.  So tiny and fragile, her blue eyes looked up at him as she sucked greedily at the nipple, staring at him like he was the center of her world. Realistically he knew that she didn’t know what she was seeing, but that didn’t matter to Clint. All the emotions he’d been trying to put aside, pretend weren’t taking over his heart, he finally stopped fighting and let go. When the bottle had just a bit left, she started to drift off, jerking awake to drink a little more when Clint jiggled the nipple in her mouth. He had to find a better  position as he lifted her up to put her head on his shoulder, patting her back and bouncing in the chair, trying to alleviate the ache in his knee and lower leg. She fell asleep as soon as she burped, curled there on Clint’s chest, and he couldn’t bring himself to move her.

A glass of water and some pills appeared in front of him; Natasha glared until he took the pain medicine and leaned back enough to raise the footrest and stretch out. Around him, conversations flowed; Bruce was on the phone with Pepper talking about furniture and Tony was adding his two cents on every decision. Phil’s voice was subdued, but right behind Clint, and he recognized the names as they passed along to Melinda, the moles in SHIELD and SI. If history was any teacher, Phil would run the leaks to ground before the plane landed in New York. Clint intended to join in but he found himself slipping under, Becca a weight that pinned him down and pull him with her into sleep. He had a second or two to wonder if Natasha had given him a sleeping pill – he wouldn’t put it past her if she thought he needed it – and then they were on approach into New York. The whole way, he’d slept, and his body was stiff from the chair and staying still so the baby would be safe. When Steve took her so Clint could get up, he stretched and listened to his body pop and creak.

Pepper was waiting on the tarmac; she ignored Tony completely, focused on Clint as he carried Becca down the plane’s stairs. They were delayed while Tony and Bruce tried to figure out the baby carrier slash car seat installed in the limo by Happy; finally, Phil stepped in and buckled her up within a minute, his experience with nieces and nephews coming in handy. Clint dragged Bruce by his sleeve into the car after a few warnings, but that didn’t stop the conversation from continuing the whole way into downtown, Tony sketching a new seat with Mark technology for automatic closure on the back of a napkin. Smiling at Pepper and Phil, Clint stopped listening when Tony began to plan for g-forces and adding rollover cages. Damn thing would probably fly by the time Stark was done … and there was no way a new car seat wasn’t going to appear after a workshop bender.

Arriving at the Tower, Clint wondered exactly what he’d find in their rooms and was pleased to see Bruce had negotiated a bassinette and changing table in their bedroom but nothing in the guest room. They had six weeks or so before she’d be sleeping in a full-sized crib Bruce assured Clint, so they could take the time to redecorate themselves. Tony had agreed because he wanted to special order some things from Europe and tweak a few others (something about a diaper pail Clint thought he remembered, but he wasn’t sure).  On the rocker front, Bruce had given in with no complaints to Tony and let him order an Erickson South Yuba and Elemental using the measurements JARVIS had on file; the custom made wooden chairs would take four weeks despite Tony’s calls to Erickson himself. Until then, a couple gliders were added, one in the bedroom and another in the living room. Bags of clothes and “necessary” items were stacked along the wall; Clint couldn’t imagine how long Becca could wear the designer outfits but he wasn’t going to argue with Pepper’s style choices, especially since it meant he didn’t have to go shopping himself.

The diaper situation was still in flux. Bruce wanted to use cloth diapers for environmental reasons; realistically, Clint knew there were times when that just wouldn’t be feasible.  Pepper came up with the solution by talking to some of the women working in the offices at SI who suggested gdiapers with reusable covers that included a biodegradable insert. They could also be configured to use cloth as well. Plus, she said, they came in a variety of stylish fabric and they’d personalize them as well. Clint foresaw some new publicity coming soon from the small company. The environmentally friendly diaper used by the Avengers! Hulk, Iron Man, Thor, Captain America … Clint assumed Pep would make sure there were Hawkeye, Black Widow, and Captain Marvel ones too as part of the licensing deal.  Fortunately, Bruce had agreed to give them a try until he could test their claims of no environmental impact.

There was no preparation for the way their lives had to change. Years of operating on little sleep and staying focused for days made waking up every two to three hours easier, but their whole schedule had to shift to accommodate Becca’s needs. The first day brought the first problem:  Bruce had tests to run on the formula that Clint was injected with and Clint had a debriefing plus a medical checkup. Coulson showed up at their door thirty minutes before Clint’s appointment and ushered him out, promising he could complete his paperwork just as easily there as in his own office. Down in the lab, Carol had brought in a portable crib and tucked it in the corner where Becca could nap while they worked. In the next few days, Clint discovered just what it meant to have family. Janet Van Dyne was a natural with kids; she offered to babysit in the afternoons rather than working with Hank. Clint figured that was as much to tweak the tall doctor who seemed oblivious to Janet’s growing interest or was just really good at hiding his own. Natasha showed up with a baby papoose sling thing on the third day when she wanted to drag Clint down to the gym to work him over and check out his injuries; seeing Bruce carrying Becca tied closed to his chest as he bent over his computer, crunching data made Clint’s heart twist in his chest.  Turned out, Clint could even shoot with the sling turned around on his back; Becca weighed significantly less than his quiver, and her little heartbeat was steady and sure, settling Clint’s focus.  Even Thor took a turn carrying her around, telling her stories in his deep voice that soothed her right to sleep.

The story that went out was a mixture of Ochoa’s plan and Pepper’s intuitive public relations acumen. Keep ‘em guessing, Pepper said, and so they made a point of having all the Avengers seen with the baby around the Tower those first few days. There was no hiding Becca’s presence even if they didn’t leave the building, not with diaper services and deliveries from _Petit Tresor_. The best defense, Clint agreed, was a good offense; after their previous experience with being outted in the media, Clint knew all too well that gossips’ tongues would be wagging with all sorts of rumors.  The first story appeared on the morning of day three: Potts takes in Stark’s love child, _Page Six_ led with. From there it exploded. _The National Enquirer_ went with Pepper adopting the orphaned baby because her lover, Ryan Reynolds, wanted a family. That one was funny because Pepper had actually gone out with the actor a few times; the two were friends and Reynolds didn’t mind being the man on the CEO’s arm. By that evening, Becca had made all the entertainment news shows and was trending on twitter with the hashtag #avengerbaby. Most took their scripts straight from the press release that went out earlier; orphaned baby, please respect our privacy, children are off-limits, blah, blah. The rest ran the gamut of theories, most making Tony the father which, considering Tony’s very overt and varied sex life up to now, made a kind of sense; fortunately, Steve found the whole thing amusing since Tony got more embarrassed by each new name dredged up as a possible mother. Of the lot, the one that took the cake was that she was Steve Rogers’ great-granddaughter. A so-called journalist dug up a surviving member of the dance troupe who claimed one of the other women had given birth to Steve’s love child. No one got anywhere close to the truth; Clint’s name was only mentioned in passing and Bruce wasn’t in the running at all.

What to tell Fury was a different matter. Maria Hill herself showed up on the second day, knocking on the door of their apartment. She surprised Clint by the way her eyes softened as she looked at Becca; he’d thought her immune to baby feelings, but he was wrong. It was easy enough to use partial truth for the debriefing scheduled later that afternoon. An old contact with a tip, thinking it was a human problem, not a SHIELD one, then discovering those basement rooms and Julio’s connection with Mab. Coulson’s reports had done their job paving the way for keeping Ronin secret; Clint would be in trouble for dragging Phil along with him, but it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. That was part of Clint’s charm; be his friend and get into the most creative trouble.  The bait and switch worked perfectly; hand over the names of the insiders and Hill dropped the question of exactly why Clint ran off so fast to South America.

Actually, the problem was too many cooks in the kitchen, wanting to help or hold Becca. The Big Guy insisted on getting his own time; Clint stayed nearby and watched as the Hulk cradled the baby, holding her as she slept. So careful, he kept completely still, barely touching her as she lay on his chest, just one hand cupped to stop her from sliding off. If he didn’t love the Big Guy with all his heart, Clint would have fallen for him right then simply by the look in his dark brown eyes, so often filled with anger and fear, now amazed and happy.  Bath time was the Hulk’s favorite, but Clint preferred listening to the Big Guy sing Becca to sleep, sitting in his special chair and stroking her back. 

On the fourth day, Clint spent the afternoon observing one Andrew LeHaye, secretary to the Assistant Director of Strategic Marketing for Stark Industries North America as he took time off to go shopping in the Village and pick up a rather expensive bottle of wine for the dinner he was planning with his brand new girlfriend, an aspiring model. The kid – he looked like he was 20 even if he was really 28 – seemed to have not a care in the world as he went about spending the money that was wired into a Grand Cayman account. Clint’s read was that LeHaye didn’t know he was working for people bent on world domination; if he had to guess, Clint would go with the ‘help your government or SHIELD’ persuasive line of bullshit. Too bad, really; Andrew acted like exactly what he was – a kid from Nebraska making it big in the city. By the time he wrote his report and got back to the apartment, he was thinking of what to order for dinner and how to convince Bruce to get a good night’s sleep . They’d agreed to take turns sleeping through the night, but Bruce had stayed up working on the formulas instead. Between that and Becca’s feeding schedule, the doc hadn’t spent more than two hours in bed since they’d returned.

The room was filled with shadows, the only light coming from the city lights filtering through the security film on the windows.  The clock on the kitchen microwave and the DVD player added little guiding lights; a crack of yellow spilled out from the shut bathroom door in the master bedroom. Stepping around the unpacked bags and boxes, Clint found Bruce sprawled on the sectional sofa, his head resting on the corner with a throw pillow tucked underneath his neck, mouth open and eyes closed. A light snore was drowned out by the classical music – Mozart’s _Piano Concerto 21_ , he’d bet – playing softly throughout the room.  Cushioned in the nook of his right arm, Becca was swaddled in a blanket, just as deeply asleep as Bruce. A burp cloth was still across Bruce’s shoulder. According to the feeding schedule – yes they had one of those and tried to keep as close as possible to it in order to teach her to sleep her longest period at night – she’d eaten less than thirty minutes ago. Bruce must have drifted off after.

Clint was tempted to leave them there, but odds were Becca would be up in an hour or two for one more bottle before bath time and then, he hoped, a longer sleep. That would mean Bruce getting up as well, and Clint wanted him to get a nice, undisturbed night.  Kicking off his boots in the entryway, he padded across the hardwood floor and approached the situation like a mission. He needed to pick her up, move her into her bassinette and leave her without waking her up. Taking a deep breath, he bent and scooped her up just like he would a dangerous package that might go off at any second. She wiggled, scrunched up her nose; Clint eased her against his chest, wrapping her in his arms so she felt safe, and walked quickly into the bedroom, jiggling her with each step until he was above the bassinette. Fast seemed the best answer, so he snuggled her between the two wedges of foam that kept her on her back. She struggled for a few seconds, trying to get loose from the blanket wrapped around her, opened her mouth a few times, but then subsided, face going slack. Giving it a full five minutes, Clint waited, having learned that lesson the first day they’d been back; if you react every time she made a noise, there’d be no sleep at all. Give her five and let her settle herself.

“JARVIS,” he said as he pulled the door shut behind him, leaving her in the quiet room. 

“Sleep protocol engaged, sir,” the AI replied. Better than the best baby monitors money could buy, JARVIS kept a close watch on Becca, maintaining an optimal room temperature, playing their approved playlist of sleepytime songs (thus the Mozart), and keeping constant readings of her heartbeat and breathing, among other things. As long as they were in the Tower, Becca would never go without JARVIS’s all-seeing eye.

“She okay?” Bruce mumbled, fuzzy eyes looking through half-opened lids.

“Should be good until 10,” Clint wandered over to the sofa, planning on sitting down, maybe curling up next to him until Bruce held out his hand. Taking it, Clint put a knee on either side of Bruce’s legs and leaned his hands on either side of Bruce’s head. “You need some sleep. I’ll take watch tonight; go to bed, Doc. Rest up.”

“Okay.” That was too easy. Bruce never agreed that quickly.

“Unhuh.” Clint narrowed his eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“You are.” Bruce slid his hands along Clint’s thighs, curving around his ass and tugging him forward. “I seem to remember there was a plan.”

A low laugh bubbled out of Clint’s throat; he’d thought Bruce was too tired, but he should have known better. “You promise to get at least eight hours after?” Spreading his knees wider, he sank down onto Bruce’s lap, the soft cotton of Bruce’s sweats not hiding how his cock was stirring.

“Scout’s honor. If you let me watch you take it out.” Bruce’s eyes glowed with a hint of green in the darkened room; Clint’s gut rolled with the simmering desire that had been his constant companion all afternoon.

“I can do that,” he answered, bending his elbows until he could brush a lazy kiss across Bruce’s lips. “Let’s get you ready first.”

“Won’t take much. Been thinking about you while you were gone.” His voice turned breathy when Clint’s fingers slipped beneath the waist band of his sweats, a tiny little moan of anticipation slipping out. He didn’t have on underwear, and Clint grinned as his hand found hot flesh that stiffened as he stroked.

“You been like this the whole time? Get any work done, Doc? Or were you too busy imagining what I was feeling?” He nibbled on Bruce’s neck, exposed as his head angled back.

“Tell me, Clint. Tell me what it was like.” Shamelessly wanting, Bruce thrust his hips up into Clint’s hand, urging him to do more than just light touches.

“Full and open and filled. Every move reminded me that it was you who’d done that and made me think about what it was going to feel like when you did it again.” Clint worked Bruce’s shirt up under his arms and spread his free hand around Bruce’s chest, rubbing his thumb over a nipple, making it hard.  Bruce arched up with a quiet gasp. “Best part was the meeting. I think Steve knew something was off, maybe the way I was sitting, but he kept giving me the sideways looks to check if I was okay.”

“Oh, God,” Bruce groaned as Clint bent and sucked the other nipple in his mouth. “Please. Please.”

He could feel the sticky pre-come on his fingers and he absolutely loved the way Bruce was falling apart with need so fast. Sitting up, he pulled his t-shirt over his head then stood and shimmied out of the jeans he’d worn during his surveillance, kicking them to the side along with his briefs.  He grabbed Bruce’s waistband and tugged them down as Bruce lifted his hips. Bruce’s hard leaking cock jumped free and Clint paused only to grab a tube of lube from his pocket before he straddled Bruce again.  This time, the kiss was hard and fast; his desire for Bruce was only banked and the least touch stirred it back to full flames in seconds. All day as he followed the target, he’d felt the hard rubber plug Bruce had inserted after they’d made love earlier. It shifted when he did, a physical reminder of how it felt to have Bruce inside of him. But now that he could have the real thing, he was more than ready.

Bruce’s hands brushed along Clint’s ass, circling then grazing the end of the toy, feeling the way it flared and wiggled just enough to make Clint gasp with pleasure.  As he reached back to take it out, Bruce smacked Clint’s fingers away. “Mine,” he said with a green glitter in his eyes. “I want …”

When Bruce wanted to, he could manhandle Clint; he did so rarely and only when he was aroused past the point of worrying that the Other Guy would hurt Clint. Now he surged up, pushing Clint over, pressing his chest down on the couch so his ass was in the air; sitting forward, Bruce cupped Clint’s balls and ran a hand over the end of the plug. He hooked it with two fingers and pulled.

Bruce’s arm weighed him down as the flared toy resisted, making him tug harder to slide it out, leaving Clint empty and messy with lube. Between Bruce throwing him down and the sudden rush of must-have now, Clint’s cock jerked and hung heavy between his legs. He liked it, being held this way, pulled apart to be put back together, trusting Bruce and the Big Guy to give him exactly what he needed. Bracing his left leg on the floor and his right knee on the couch, Clint pushed back into Bruce’s questing fingers, moaning his consent. Taking the lube from Clint’s hands, Bruce slicked up and then he was pushing in, a tight grip on Clint’s hip to keep him still as he sheathed himself inside Clint’s body.

“God,” Bruce breathed out, bending over Clint to catch a bit of skin along his shoulder and suck a dark bruise.  “So good, Clint. So good.”

Clint lost himself as Bruce stood up, letting him free so Bruce could grab both hips and use the leverage to snap in harder. The whole afternoon had been foreplay, a simmering arousal that put Clint on edge. That had been what Steve had caught, the tension of waiting for this moment, when Bruce would fold him over and fuck him again. He pushed up on his hands, changing the angle and gasped as Bruce slammed into him, his vision whiting in flashes as the pleasure soared up his spine and spiked into his brain. Wrapping an arm under Clint’s hips, Bruce lifted him and kept thrusting in a rough rhythm that wrung little grunts and groans from Clint despite trying to stay as quiet as possible.  With each of them having one knee on the couch and the other foot on the floor, it was a delicate balance that made working in harmony a requirement, Clint’s hands reaching back to steady him on Bruce’s hips and the iron strength of Bruce’s arm keeping Clint upright.

“Clint, Clint, Clint. Oh, God, fuck, fuck, so good, so good.” Burying his head in Clint’s neck, Bruce muffled his own voice.

After a few minutes, Clint felt his knee twinge; without thinking, he drew in a quick breath. Bruce heard, of course, and stopped, buried deep.  “You okay? Do you need …”

“Don’t stop, just …” Clint shifted them until he could get both knees up on the couch and his hands on the back. He tossed a grin over his shoulder. “There, that’s better.” He wiggled his ass in little circles to encourage Bruce to start again.

“Damn it,” Bruce muttered, pushing Clint forward until his head was chest flush against the cushions and Bruce could reach an arm to grab the scruff of Clint’s hair. “Hold on.”

They didn’t speak again as they started the rush to climax, swiftly dropping back into a frantic rhythm that had Clint begging, a litany of please, please, please rolling like a mantra from his mouth.  He thought he couldn’t get any harder, but then all he could feel was the beat of heart in his dick that matched the thrusts of Bruce’s hips. When Bruce’s voice began to turn gravely and deep, Clint knew Bruce was nearing the end; hips stuttered, lost the pace and Bruce fell over onto Clint’s back as he came, pulsing inside of Clint for what seemed like minutes, each shiver rocketing Clint further in his own chase of release.

“Mine,” the Hulk growled, picking Clint up and turning him around like he weighed nothing at all, laying him along the back of the couch and parting his legs.

“Hey, Big Guy, going to get messy if we …” He stopped being able to form a coherent thought as the Hulk grew bigger, close to his normal size, knelt down and licked a long strip up the underside of Clint’s aching cock. Back down the rough tongue went, stroking along the sensitive skin behind his balls and down further, cleaning the come leaking out before he went back up.  Clint could only arch up and bite his lip to keep the loud moan muted as the Hulk did the same thing again, tongue wrapping around his cock and sucking him in with one smooth motion that made him finally see stars, his climax hitting him so hard he almost rolled right off the couch. Only one big green hand stopped him, trapping him in place until he could catch his breath.

“Wow, that was … Fuck!” Clint burst out with the word as the Big Guy went back to finishing the job, his tongue pressing inside, cleaning Clint inside and out, tickling him along his ribs and stomach, licking every last spot.

“Shhhhh!” The Hulk warned, his grin so wide it threatened to spill over the sides of his face. “Becca sleeping. Inside voice.”

“Yeah, well, warn a guy next time, okay?” Clint replied.

“Cupid like being a mess?” The Hulk cocked his head as he asked, all seriousness.

“I don’t mind, but I liked what you did, too.” Clint pushed up on one elbow and wondered just how to extract himself from his position with any kind of grace. “You ready to sleep now?”

“Little Guy want to know about meerkat.” Yeah, letting the Hulk get addicted to _Meerkat Manor_ was probably not a good idea; he kept referring to the moles as meerkats. Tickled Tony to no end and Clint had to admit it made the Big Guy even more endearing. “But Hulk wants to cuddle. Best part is cuddle.”

“Don’t worry on that point; I’m looking forward to it myself. Let me talk to Bruce for a bit while we clean up and then I’m all yours until Becca gets hungry again,” Clint bargained. The Hulk didn’t like it but he agreed, shifting back to a very tired looking Bruce who leaned on Clint all the way into the second bathroom. For the time being, they were using both baths, depending upon where Becca was asleep. Clint started the shower and went back to pick up the plug that Bruce had dropped onto his t-shirt. No use leaving it there for someone to wander in and find.

“When did you find the time to order this?” Clint as he put it into a sink and ran soapy water to cover it. “We’ve only been back a few days.”

“Priority mail and Tony’s special store.” Bruce was practically mumbling, all his energy gone as he slumped against the tile wall. “Feel like Wily E. Coyote and Acme products. Call and it shows up at the door instantly.”

“Wait, you told Tony?” Clint stepped in and stole the soap out of Bruce’s hand.

“No, I just know where Tony keeps his bookmarks and JARVIS has the ordering info.” Eyes at half mast, Bruce still looked pleased with himself.

“Really? Interesting. JARVIS, can you access my last search and find what I put in my cart?” Clint asked, winking at Bruce.

“Indeed Agent Barton. Would you like me to facilitate ordering for you? I believe the arrival date would be in the morning delivery,” the A.I. replied.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Do I want to know?” Bruce raised an eyebrow, unsure of the answer.

“All I’ll say is two words. Hulk model. That’s all.” Clint felt entirely too satisfied when Bruce’s eyes widened.

“Oh, Lord, there’s not a licensed line of …”

“Yep. I’d have gotten the Hawkeye model, but the clitoral stimulator seemed like overkill.”

Bruce’s head fell back against the wall as he groaned. “Lovely. Something to look forward to.”

“Indeed. Now turn around and let me wash your back. I promised the Big Guy some cuddle time.”

**NOW –MEXICALI, MEXICO**

He hated this damn place. Nobody respected him, just another gringo who had problems with the law and had to skip the country. Couldn’t even keep a damn job as a courier; a Border Patrol agent on the company’s payroll had recognized him on his third run to Yuma and he’d been dropped so fast he didn’t get his last paycheck. The girl he’d been crashing with had screamed at him in rapid fire Spanish, probably telling him to get his ass out of her place and who the hell was she to kick him out?  God damn it all, he was better than this. He just needed a chance, to be given what was his due. Slamming the door behind him, he took his one remaining duffle bag of belongings and walked down the rickety wood stairs nailed to the side of the old building. No plan was forming in his head; he had nothing, not options. Every bridge was burned … again … and here he was, another night sleeping outside in his near future.

A TV was playing at the local cantina where he stopped for a shot – to keep his belly warm during the night, he told himself – and there, bigger than life, was the little shit, getting off some private jet then dressed in a penguin suit then shooting that damn bow. Elbowing his way closer, he could just make out the words the anchor was saying, something about adoptions and babies and the past controversy of coming out as a gay couple. The rich one in the tin can was next up under the gossip’s microscope, a laundry list of sex tapes and drunken antics and rampant rumors about who he was fucking now.

It wasn’t fair. He’d sacrificed and helped the kid out and this is how it came down? Clint off living the high life in a tower in New York City with the whole world in love with him? He’d tried to get to Clint last year, after the big battle, but no one would let him within a hundred yards. Stupid security guards and men-in-black who ran him off like he was some fucking groupie, not the brother of the famous Hawkeye. If he could only get close enough, he knew Clint would spot him a loan like always ; hell, if Clint didn’t cooperate, maybe Stark himself would pony up to keep some of Clint’s secrets. All he had to do was avoid the red-haired bitch Clint ran with and he bet he could score big. Yeah, that’s the plan. All he needed was a way to get from here to there. Then he could show Clint, make him remember who was the big brother. As he walked out of the bar, a little unsteady on his feet, he was already thinking about how to avoid being caught sneaking back in the U.S., what he could bully out of past associates.

“Charles Bernard Barton?”

She was drop dead gorgeous in a tight white dress that ended far above her knees and fuck-me-red pumps.  His dick jumped to attention, her white skin so pure and smooth, her scent a cross between the crispness of snow and cedar wood. Out of place on this street, she was perfection, from her Louboutins  to her coal black hair and ruby lips.

“Yes, ma’am. Barney Barton at your service. And I do mean service.” He winked, fumbling a step forward, reaching to touch her.

“Ah, so eager to help, I see. Yes, you’ll do for the moment. Charles Bernard Barton, will you offer yourself to me?” She spoke with an exotic accent, her ice blue eyes appraising him. Suddenly, he wished he’d cleaned up some before he’d run out, maybe had a shower.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, shifting to avoid the ache in his pants. “You can do whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“Good.”

Her manicured nail touched his forehead, and Barney didn’t have time to scream before he was ripped out of his flesh and thrown out into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come on, it's all about mutations and DNA, right? Brothers share the same blood, after all.


End file.
